


D'Un Nouvel Oeil

by sunflowerseedsandscience



Series: The Pequod Universe [2]
Category: The X-Files
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, F/M, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-25
Updated: 2018-09-25
Packaged: 2019-07-17 13:14:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 48,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16096397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunflowerseedsandscience/pseuds/sunflowerseedsandscience
Summary: This is a companion piece to "Au Cafe Pequod," telling the same story from Scully's perspective.





	1. Chapter 1

ORADOUR-SUR GLANE, HAUTE-VIENNE, FRANCE  
EARLY DECEMBER 1943

She has been on her feet since before five o'clock in the morning, and she is ready to collapse.

It’s not the early morning that’s the problem- Dana Scully is more than used to days that begin before dawn- but, rather, the near-total lack of sleep the night before. Two hours after closing the cafe spent on preparing dough and slicing meats for the next day, an hour feeding herself for the first time since noon, a half hour to bathe… and finally, three hours trying to bring down the fever of a delirious British soldier brought to her back door in the dead of night for treatment. 

He had spent the entire time crying for his mother.

Byers and Langly had staggered away with the soldier propped up between them at three-thirty in the morning, and Scully had managed less than two hours’ rest before dragging herself out to her mother’s farm to help with the morning milking. She’d napped for an hour, at her mother’s insistence, before returning to town, to her cafe, but since then, she’s been in constant motion.

She’s grateful, really, that the place is so busy, even if it does mean she’s being run off her feet most of the time. Plenty of businesses in Oradour-sur-Glane have shut down in the years since the beginning of the German occupation, but the Cafe Pequod has been getting along just fine- thriving, even.

Of course, that’s mostly due to the German officers and enlisted men who fill her tables every night… but, she continually reminds herself, they’re serving a very specific purpose. Even if they’re not aware of it.

When she comes out of the kitchen with the latest round of sandwiches, she notices that he’s back again tonight, sitting at his usual table in the corner. He’s been there every night for weeks, and he’s always alone. He orders a sandwich, sometimes two, and endless cups of coffee, and drinks them in silence. No one ever sits with him, though Walther Skinner sometimes stops at his table and exchanges a few words. The tone of their brief conversations seems to indicate that Walther is the man’s captain, and Scully makes a mental note to ask Walther about him, the next time they meet.

He’s always polite, this man, speaking to her in impeccable French without any trace of an accent, unlike most of his comrades, who bark at her in German and seem to think being courteous is beneath them. It’s true that he does watch her rather more than she’s accustomed to- she frequently catches him gazing at her, at which point he always blushes and redirects his attention elsewhere- but he never causes any sort of a disturbance.

Which is more than can be said for the man seated near the center of the cafe this evening.

This particular soldier has shown up inebriated before, but she’s never seen him quite as drunk as he is tonight. Normally, she doesn’t find it terribly difficult, pretending that she only speaks very little German, acting as though she doesn’t understand the majority of what is being said around her… but the things this man is saying tonight are truly trying her self-restraint. More than once, she’s considered “accidentally” tripping while carrying a pot of piping-hot coffee past him and spilling it all over him, but thus far, she’s resisted.

Her self-control is finally pushed to the breaking point when, passing more closely to the soldier’s table than she’d like to, she feels a hand grabbing at the back of her skirt. She whirls to face the hand’s owner, severing the unwelcome contact, and hits him with the coldest glare she can summon.

“Keep your hands to yourself!” she orders him, furiously, and then, to make sure there is absolutely no misunderstanding, she switches to German, putting on a much heavier accent than necessary. _"Fassen Sie mich nicht an!!”_ The soldier holds up his hands in mock surrender, sneering at her, but she turns before he can speak, carrying a fresh cup of coffee to the quiet man in the back corner.

“Your coffee, Sir,” she says to him, setting it down on the table in front of him.

“Is that man bothering you?” he asks, in his surprisingly perfect French, and she risks a glance up at him. His hazel eyes are kind, concerned. Feeling eyes, her mother would call them. 

“It’s nothing I can’t handle,” she says, shrugging and turning away with his empty coffee mug. She discovers that she’d very much like to stay and talk a bit longer, to find out where he’s managed to learn such excellent French, and how it is that he’s ended up here, in the company of men like the ones at the table behind her, who have begun singing a bawdy, raucous drinking song about a woman relieved of her supposed loneliness by a passing patrol of soldiers. She retreats to the kitchen to escape their leers. She doesn’t doubt that they’d love to cure her supposed “loneliness,” and she remains in the kitchen as long as possible, until the singing has died down.

Lonely? She doesn’t have _time_ to be lonely.

She’s fully aware of how she’s seen by most of the soldiers who frequent her cafe. A young, unmarried woman, running her own business successfully in a time of shortages? The question isn’t how she’s doing it so much as, who is helping her? The obvious answer, she supposes, is Hauptmann Skinner; it’s widely known that she’s friendly with him, he’s often seen talking to her and walking with her in town during the day. In their view, it’s a logical assumption that he’s providing at least some of the supplies her cafe needs in exchange for certain… concessions.

What would they think, these men, if they knew the truth? That she requires no outside assistance to procure her supplies, that she manages it all herself? That her friendship with Skinner is just that- a friendship?

That his reasons for speaking with her so often have nothing to do with the supplying of her restaurant?

She has, truth be told, gotten the feeling, on more than one occasion, that should she ask Skinner’s help in relieving any perceived “loneliness,” he would be more than willing… but he’s a kind man, a decent man, a truly good man, and she doesn’t like the idea of using him that way, no matter how amenable he may be to the idea of being used.

The hour is growing later, and the dining room is empty, with the exception of four people: the drunken oaf and his equally intoxicated compatriots, and the hazel-eyed soldier in the back corner. 

“French whores, they know what to do with their mouths,” the drunk declares loudly, and the men sitting with him agree. "No yapping. No talk at all.“ He leans back in his seat, arms behind his head, and Scully avoids his gaze as she passes. She can feel his eyes on her, though. "But that’s the thing about France now. When it comes to French women, there’s no difference between the whores and the rest of them. The whole country’s spread its legs for us, it’s ours for the taking!” Scully freezes in the act of clearing a table, taking deep, even breaths to calm the rage that’s suddenly reared up in her chest. They can’t know that you understand them, she reminds herself fiercely. 

Looking up, searching for something, anything to fix her gaze on until she’s calmed, she catches the hazel-eyed soldier looking at her. His eyes say, all too clearly, that should she nod in his direction he’ll be out of his seat like lightning, ready to remove the unwelcome intrusion from her cafe, by force, if necessary. She can’t have that, though: a fight in her cafe would tarnish her reputation for not being any trouble, not being worth the notice of the commander of the regiment stationed in her village. She spins around quickly, breaking their eye contact, and heads back towards the kitchen, her arms loaded with empty crockery destined for the sink.

She doesn’t quite make it.

She’s in such a rush to get to the back, where she can regain her composure in peace, that she doesn’t register the drunken soldier reaching for her until it’s too late. He grabs her and wrestles her onto his lap, sending her armful of plates and bowls flying, and even in the middle of being molested by this disgusting excuse for a man, she’s exasperatedly tallying up the cost of replacing her ruined flatware. She returns to taking stock of the situation at hand, readying her elbow for insertion into her assailant’s solar plexus… when, glancing up, she realizes she’s got a much bigger problem than broken dishes heading her way.

Scully barely has time to duck her head before the hazel-eyed soldier’s fist makes devastating contact with her attacker’s nose. There’s a loud crunch as his nose breaks, a bright gout of blood, and the man’s hold on her is abruptly slackened. She leaps to her feet as he falls backwards off of his chair, his friends jumping out of their seats and yelling in protest. Her would-be rescuer stands with fists clenched, daring his opponent to fight back… but it’s the other two he should be worrying about. Scully barely has time to call out a warning before one of them brings down an empty wine bottle over the back of the hazel-eyed man’s head, and he collapses face-first. His forehead strikes the corner of a chair and he bounces to the floor, a nasty gash above his brow spilling blood onto the tiles.

Scully whirls to face the men. "Get out of here, now!!“ she yells. "Take him-” she gestures to their fallen friend, still lying dazed with a broken nose- “and leave! Leave now or your Hauptmann Skinner will hear all about this! GO!!” They might not know enough French to understand all of what she’s shouting at them, but her meaning is nonetheless clear- and invoking the name of one of their officers is particularly effective. They prop up their incapacitated comrade between them and drag him from the cafe. Scully rushes to lock the door behind them.

Returning to the hazel-eyed man’s side, she finds him moaning, hovering on the ragged edge of consciousness, and she realizes that she needs to move quickly.

“Sir, I need to get you upstairs,” she says, speaking in her best German, eliminating as many obstacles as possible to him understanding her. She crouches next to him and slides an arm under his shoulders. He groans as he tries to push himself to his feet, Scully helping him as much as she is able, which is not much- he’s nearly twice her size. He’s leaning what feels like most of his weight on her, and she momentarily considers just leaving him on the floor and treating him here… but he’s likely moments from passing out completely, and once that’s happened, she won’t have a prayer of moving him. And with curfew in effect, she can’t run for help.

They make their way very slowly through the dining room and kitchen, to the narrow staircase in the back that leads up to Scully’s flat. Ascending to the second floor is risky and difficult, but with the wall and the bannister to help them along, they make it, Scully murmuring a steady stream of encouragement in German to him the whole way. She navigates them both into her parlor and manages to wrestle his uniform jacket off of him before he collapses onto her sofa. She unlaces and removes his boots, props his feet up, and once he’s as comfortable as she can make him, she sets about examining his wound.

It’s definitely going to need stitches; that much is obvious. Musing to herself that she seems destined to spend her evenings sewing up soldiers, even when they’re not brought in secret to her back stoop in the small hours of the morning, she sets about gathering up her supplies, drawing a low stool up next to the man’s head and positioning herself atop it.

“Sir?” Her voice is loud, but he doesn’t stir. "You have a gash on your forehead, and I need to stitch it up.“ No response. She gives his shoulder a firm shake, but he still doesn’t move. The slow, regular rise and fall of his chest confirms that he’s breathing, but he’s passed out cold. She deliberates a moment. It’s a risky business, allowing someone with a head injury to sleep… but on the other hand, it might be better for him if he’s sleeping while she sees to his injuries. Typically, in the absence of chloral or anything else to dull the pain, she has Langly or Byers, and sometimes Frohike, on hand to hold her patients down while she works, but as far as she knows, they’re miles away in Limoges tonight.

And so, hoping desperately that he remains asleep, Scully threads her needle and gets to work.

—————————–

The sun has fully risen when she wakes to the sound of an unfamiliar voice moaning in pain. She’d dozed off in an armchair sometime after two in the morning, unwilling to leave the room in case the soldier should wake during the night, and her neck is incredibly stiff.

He hasn’t opened his eyes yet, but he’s clearly struggling back towards consciousness. Scully resumes her position on the stool by his head and strokes his face gently, trying to soothe him.

"Shhhh,” she says. "It’s all right.“ At the sound of her voice, he tries to sit up, but she puts gentle pressure on his chest to keep him reclined. "Just relax,” she says. “You’ve been out cold all night.” His hazel eyes open, tinged with panic, and slam shut against the bright sunlight immediately.

“Mademoiselle,” he says. "Where am I?“ He opens his eyes again, and she’s relieved to find that there’s recognition there. If he doesn’t remember how he’s gotten here, he at least remembers who she is.

"You’re in my apartment, above the cafe,” she says. “Do you remember anything from last night?” He closes his eyes and frowns as though thinking, swallowing several times. She reaches over to the end table, where she’d placed a glass of water before sitting down to rest, in case he should wake during the night, and she props it up against his lips so that he can drink. Which he does- far too quickly. "Just a little at a time,“ she advises him, taking the glass back for the moment. "With a head injury, you could be nauseous.” She helps him to slowly sit up, but stops him when he tries to climb off of the sofa completely. "You should rest longer,“ she says. "That was quite the blow to the head you took, and you hit the other side on your way down, as well.”

"Is that what I feel on my forehead?” he asks, cautiously probing the bandages she’d wound around his head, once she’d finished tending to him.

“You caught the edge of a chair as you fell,” she says. “I had to put in a few sutures. You were quite unconscious by then, thankfully.”

“You’re a nurse?” She tries not to be annoyed at the assumption; it is, after all, what most people would assume, and is far more likely than the truth.

“A doctor,” she explains. “I studied medicine in Paris, before the war.” His eyes go wide and his brows raise, a reflex that has him immediately wincing. "There’s no need to look so shocked.”

“I’m impressed, not shocked,” he says. “I promise.” And something about the way he’s looking at her makes it clear that he’s telling the truth. She doesn’t know much about this man, but if he’s the sort who will applaud a woman for becoming a doctor, rather than lecture her about her proper place, then she likes him already. She smiles warmly at him, and his lovely eyes go instantly soft.

“So how did you end up running this place?” the man asks. “Instead of practicing medicine?”

“My mother owns this cafe,” she explains. “She became ill about five years ago, and none of my siblings were able to be here to care for her. And once she’d recovered….” Scully pauses and looks out the window, more than a little disturbed at the sort of treatment her mother could have suffered in her place last night. “I don’t think she feels safe working here, not now. After last night, I’m sure you can see why.”

“I am so, so sorry for what happened,” says the man, immediately shamefaced. “That man’s actions were inexcusable and I feel terrible that that happened to you.” She purses her lips. As much as she’d like to think the best of this man, who has never been anything but polite to her, and who had been so eager to come to her rescue, the fact remains that she would not have needed rescuing at all if it weren’t for the army of which he is a part.

“My understanding, from whatever history I’ve studied, is that this is what an invading force does,” she replies.

“That doesn’t mean I agree with it,” he says. A fine sentiment, but she’s not letting him off that easy.

“You volunteered for this duty?” she asks. “Or were you conscripted?”

"Conscripted,” he states. “And assigned to this unit against my strong protests, because the commander is a friend of my father’s. I wanted to serve at a military hospital instead.” Now it’s her turn to be impressed.

“You’re a doctor as well?”

"A psychologist,” he says. He looks around the room, and his gaze lands on the clock on her mantlepiece. He closes his eyes and groans. “I need to get back to the encampment,” he says. “I’ve missed the morning roll call, they’ll think I’ve taken off.” He sits all the way up, and, catching sight of his boots next to the couch, he slides his feet into them and begins lacing them up. Scully stands- somewhat reluctantly- and gets the man his uniform shirt.

She tells herself that she’s so reluctant to let him go because he might require further observation… and not because she’s more than a little keen to keep talking to him.

“I’ll come with you,” she says. “And explain to your captain the reason for your absence. You’re under Hauptmann Skinner, correct?” The man’s brows raise in surprise.

“How do you know that?” he asks.

“He speaks with you when he comes here,” she says. “I’ve overheard you once or twice. He seems a very even-headed man; I’m sure he’ll understand once I explain what happened.”

"You don’t have to do that,” says the man hastily, and she smiles encouragingly at him.

“I want to,” she says, and before she can stop herself, she’s downright teasing him- something she can’t remember doing to anyone for years. "Your knight in shining armor routine was quite dashing last night. Making sure you don’t get in any more trouble for it is the least I can do.“ Who is this man, that he can coax this long-forgotten side out of her so easily? His grin says he likes it.

"It seems a bit late for introductions, now that you’ve already taken off my shirt and boots,” he says (curse her fair redhead’s complexion, there’s no way he can miss that she’s blushing), “but my name’s Fox Mulder.”

“Fox?” She can’t help her surprise; it’s not a name one hears every day.

“Don’t ask. Best to just go with Mulder.” She smiles.

"Dana Scully,” she says, reaching out to shake his hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

"How does a Frenchwoman come by such a thoroughly un-French name?” asks Mulder.

“By having an American sailor for a father,” says Scully.

“Ahhh,” he says, understanding. “Wartime romance?”

"He swept her right off her feet,” says Scully, smiling at the memory of the romantic tale she and her siblings have heard innumerable times. “But that’s a story for another time, I think. We need to get you back to your encampment before someone comes looking for you.” She hasn’t let go of his hand after shaking it (she doesn’t really want to, she finds), and now she uses that hand to help him carefully to his feet. She makes herself release his hand- reluctantly- and she can’t help but notice that he looks maybe a tiny bit regretful when she does.

————————

Scully hasn’t been out to the German encampment before; it’s not exactly a wise place for a young woman to go wandering alone. Back when it had still been a farm owned by a local family she had known since childhood, she’d often bought fruit from their orchards and eggs from their chickens, before her mother had begun keeping her own. Now, the farmer’s fields are covered in German tents.

Scully doesn’t like to think about where the farmer is.

She can feel the eyes of the other soldiers on her as they make their way through the encampment, and she finds herself walking as close to Mulder as she can. Glancing down at her, he places one proprietary hand at the small of her back, and while she would ordinarily think such familiarity presumptuous, she finds she doesn’t mind at all- in fact, it’s comforting.

They find Hauptmann Skinner sitting in front of his tent. He doesn’t look surprised to see Scully there with Mulder- but, then, Walther Skinner is a difficult man to ruffle. Not much seems to shock him. He tucks the letter he’s reading into his uniform pocket and stands as they approach. 

“Obersoldat Mulder,” he says. “I was told you were involved in an incident last night.” Mulder ducks his head slightly.

“Yes, Sir, I was.” He and Skinner are speaking German, and for half a second, Scully panics, unsure of what to do. Should she pretend not to understand most of it, the way she usually does around everyone but Skinner? Mulder might not remember her speaking German to him last night as she’d helped him upstairs; he’d hit his head pretty hard. But no, she remembers, he’d seen her expression when the drunken soldier had been saying those disgusting things about French women. The cat’s probably out of the bag on this one.

“I understand that you assaulted another officer- that you broke his nose- because you were jealous of the attentions he was receiving from a local woman,” Skinner is saying. Scully exchanges a surprised glance with Mulder, which does not go unnoticed by Skinner. “I take it that’s not quite accurate?”

"No, Sir, not at all,” says Mulder. Scully steps forward in Mulder’s defense.

“Herr Skinner, Obersoldat Mulder defended me last night when another soldier made unwelcome physical advances. He was injured when one of that soldier’s friends hit him over the head with a bottle, and I kept him overnight at my cafe to suture his wounds and care for him.” Skinner appears to be weighing the evidence as he studies both of their faces in turn, but Scully knows him well enough to know that he believes them. He is, above all else, a reasonable man, well-versed in the various strengths and weakness of then men with whom he serves.

It’s one of the many things that makes him well-suited for his… other pursuits.

“Very well,” he says. “Mulder, keep that wound clean. I don’t feel like losing you to something as stupid as infection, not when you’re so determined to find a thousand other stupid ways to die.” She and Mulder both grin.

“Yes, Sir.”

"And Fraulein Scully,” Skinner advises her, “rest assured that the soldier who bothered you will not be returning to your establishment. If he does, please let me know immediately.” He looks at Mulder. “Or perhaps Obersoldat Mulder will keep me informed, since I’m sure he’ll continue to haunt that back table nightly.” Mulder looks somewhat embarrassed, and Scully wishes that she could tell him not to be, that she’s hoping very hard that Skinner is right.

“I suppose I’ll see you soon, then, Mulder,” is all she says, hoping the rest of her feelings are conveyed in the broad smile she gives him.

“Count on it, Miss Scully,” he says. She laughs.

“I think we’d better make it just Scully, if you’re going to make me call you Mulder,” she says. “And you should be off your feet for at least awhile yet. That was a nasty knock on the head.”

“You heard her, Mulder,” says Skinner. “I’ll escort Fraulein Scully back to the cafe. Get yourself back to your tent immediately.” And with one last sweet smile in Scully’s direction, Mulder lopes off on his long legs. Skinner looks down at Scully and offers her his arm, which she takes.

They’re silent most of the way through the camp, but once they’re a good distance back towards town, Skinner glances down at her.

“He thought you needed rescuing?” he asks, his eyebrows raised. Scully grins.

“Quite the gallant Sir Lancelot, he was,” she says. "Honestly, he really did do me a great favor, even if he doesn’t know it. I would have had to hurt the man myself to make him leave me alone, and that could have attracted your commander’s attention in ways I’d rather avoid.“ She sighs. "I only wish the poor man hadn’t ended up injured because of it. It really was wonderful of him to come to my defense.”

"From everything I’ve seen, he’s a good man,” says Skinner. "He truly doesn’t want to be here. Plenty of them don’t, of course, but for some of them, that makes them apathetic… and sometimes cruel. Mulder just keeps his head down and goes about his business. When we were in combat, he was a natural leader, very protective of the men around him.“ Skinner pauses and frowns. "I’ve thought… once or twice… that maybe he could be useful to us… but there’s no way of approaching him without risking the entire operation, should I turn out to have read him completely wrongly.”

"It’s probably too dangerous,” Scully agrees. She looks up at Skinner. "You really think he’ll be back every night?“ Skinner laughs.

"Dana, did you somehow miss the way he was looking at you?” Skinner shakes his head, grinning. "You mark my words, he’s going to be sitting in your cafe the moment he’s excused from camp this evening.“ Scully can’t help it- the thought makes her go warm all over, and she smiles softly. "Well, there’s no need to look so miserable about it,” Skinner chuckles… but he sobers quickly. "Just remember, Dana,“ he cautions her, "he may be a good man, but that doesn’t mean it’s safe for him to know. He has family at home, people who would be at risk if our commander were to discover that he had information about you and didn’t pass it on.”

"Not a word, I promise you,” Scully reassures him. She understands as well as anyone: love is a powerful motivator, and even good men can become cruel when the alternative is seeing their families harmed.

It’s a truth to which she has borne witness, day after day, for three years.

“Another matter that needs your attention,” Skinner continues. “We need a better way of passing messages. I’m not comfortable writing things down as much as we have been… there has to be a more secure way for your people to get you the information that you need to make your arrangements.” Scully frowns. She knows Skinner is right- they’re putting far too much information in writing and it’s madness, customers surreptitiously leaving slips of paper under their coffee mugs.

“Give me a day or so,” she tells him. “I’ll come up with something, I promise.”


	2. Chapter 2

ORADOUR-SUR-GLANE, HAUTE-VIENNE, FRANCE  
LATE DECEMBER 1943

“Is he handsome?” Maggie Scully asks, not looking up from the rolled-out dough she’s carefully fitting into a pie tin. It would be an innocent enough question, Scully thinks, if her mother hadn’t asked it twice already.

“Yes, Maman,” she sighs, exasperated, as she flutes the edges on an already-completed pie. “Very tall, very dashing, very handsome, and if you don’t mind my saying, you are very obvious.”

“I’m only asking, Dana!” Maggie protests, but her smile gives her away. “You work too hard, Darling. You should enjoy yourself from time to time. Have a little fun.”

“A little fun,” Scully says, eyebrow cocked. “With a German officer.”

“He can’t help being German, and you said he’s not here voluntarily, didn’t you?” Scully nods. “And he came to your rescue, when the man threatening you was one of his own. That shows bravery.”

“I didn’t need rescuing,” Scully grumbles. “I was seconds away from dealing with the situation on my own.”

“Yes, I know that, Dana, but did he?” Her mother sets aside the filled pie tin and reaches for another. “In a situation like that, most men are going to assume that most women need their help. How was he to know that you’re not most women?” She kisses her daughter on the cheek and breaks off a chunk of dough from the massive hunk they’d spent the morning preparing. “Now, remind me again. Cherry is for… Allied soldiers?” Scully nods.

“Cherry for soldiers, apple for Jews, and anything else… for everybody else.”

“Very poetic,” Maggie laughs.

“I didn’t know what to use for a third filling,” says Scully defensively. “There are still plenty of apples put by, and you made enough cherry preserves to supply all of Paris this year, but we don’t have enough of anything else- not enough lemons, rhubarbs, peach preserves- to cover all the political prisoners we’ve been seeing.”

“And how are we getting all of these pie tins back?” Maggie asks. “We can’t afford to buy more, can we?” Scully shakes her head.

“We’re cutting it very close as it is,” she says. “And the extra supplies for the pies will cut into what I’ve got saved. I’m putting an empty crate in front of the cafe and asking people to bring back the empty tins when they’ve finished. And we’ll make a few extra pies to sell in the cafe. I’ll be sure to charge a premium.”

“Anything with fruit will command a good price,” her mother agrees. “Cherries, especially.”

“Yes, and they don’t have to know that you currently hold the French monopoly on cherry preserves,” says Scully, and her mother swats at her with a dishrag.

“And aren’t you glad that I do?” Scully smiles. She and her mother have always been close, particularly since her father’s death, but after a year spent nursing her mother back to health when Maggie had taken ill, and especially recently, with so much time spent worrying together over Scully’s brothers being at sea, they’ve become inseparable. They run the cafe together, with Maggie providing most of the supplies and arranging to trade for what they can’t produce themselves, and Scully taking care of the day-to-day operations.

And since the beginning of the Occupation, they’ve branched out together into additional business ventures, as well.

Joining up with the Resistance had been Scully’s idea, primarily. She’d been approached by Melvin Frohike, a Dutchman living in France, and asked if she might have leftover food at the end of the day that he could possibly relieve her of and distribute to what he’d initially termed “travelers,” which Scully had immediately understood to mean “refugees.” She’d been more than willing.

One evening, Frohike had turned up with a large bloodstain covering part of his shirt under his jacket, and when she’d inquired, he’d explained that one of his “travelers” had been involved in a bicycle accident. She’d told Frohike to bring this traveler to her at once- she’d had to leave school shortly before obtaining her medical degree, it’s true, but she’d intuited, correctly, that she’d been as close to a doctor as this traveler was going to get.

The “traveler” had turned out to be a British pilot who had crash-landed some forty miles north. She’d set his broken leg, stitched up his many lacerations, and had sent him on his way, admonishing Frohike and his friends that, should they happen upon any more injured or sick “travelers,” they should bring them to see her.

Maggie had come on the scene when a Jewish man and his young daughter had needed a place to stay overnight. The Cafe Pequod, at the center of town and full of customers all day long, had not been an ideal location… but Maggie Scully’s farm, well outside of town but still within easy walking distance, had been perfect. Scully had been nervous about confessing to her mother that she’d involved herself in something so dangerous, but Maggie had been proud of her daughter, not angry, and only too willing to get involved herself.

Now, the Cafe Pequod is so fully immersed in the Resistance that its day-to-day operations are little more than a front for its true purpose. The townspeople know that, during the day, they can get a hot meal there for free, the difference made up by the higher prices Scully charges the German soldiers who frequent it in the afternoons and evenings. Scully herself hides her fluency in German, surreptitiously picking up tidbits of information from soldiers who don’t think she can understand them. She organizes the safe passage of refugees, coordinating their movements with the priest in the village church, who meets with her in the privacy of the confessional, and, when it’s needed, she hides them on her mother’s farm. Even now, there’s an entire family staying in one of the outbuildings, under false papers procured for them by Frohike, posing as her mother’s hired help (and actually helping her a good deal in the process).

All movements of the German regiment camped outside of the town, of course, are dispatched to Scully ahead of time by Walther Skinner.

“This should be enough for this week,” Maggie Scully says, passing an empty pie crust for Scully to fill, according to the information she has in the notebook that sits open beside her. Should anyone see it who shouldn’t, all they would find is an unassuming list of orders: types of pies, along with how many people they will need to feed, and the date by which they’ll need to be ready. It’s far safer than their prior method, which involved slips of paper containing the pertinent information being left underneath empty coffee mugs when the “patron” had finished their meal. The information had always been written in code; however, it had been obvious that it had been a code, whereas there’s nothing suspicious about a list of pies at all.

“Next week, we should bake a few extra pies,” says Scully. “For Christmas. I’ll have Hauptmann Skinner spread the word that we’re doing special orders, and maybe we can get a little extra money off of some of the officers.”

“Good idea,” says Maggie. “And speaking of Christmas… why don’t you invite your young man to Christmas dinner?”

“My young man?” Scully asks. “He’s an acquaintance, Maman. Just barely a friend. You speak as though he’s getting your approval to court me.”

“That blush says that’s exactly what you’d like him to do,” says Maggie slyly.

“Maman!” Maggie laughs. “I’ll invite him, all right? Just so you can see that nothing is going on. We’ve been talking together a good deal, that’s all.”

“A good deal” doesn’t even begin to cover it. Ever since that night, Mulder has shown up in her cafe like clockwork every evening. The first night, he’d stood to leave with the rest of the customers when she’d locked up, but she’d stopped him.

“A young man decides to do such a wonderful impersonation of Sir Lancelot on my behalf, the least I can do is provide him with a meal and some company,” she’d said, and he’d resumed his seat at his usual table, smiling. She’d brought out sandwiches and coffee, had sat down, and had begun to get to know Fox Mulder, of Dutch descent, eldest child of a wealthy Berlin solicitor and his socialite wife.

Since then, she’s been delighted to learn that Mulder had studied at Oxford and speaks English fluently, albeit with a strong accent. They switch between French, German, and English as it suits them when they talk, and the combination, coupled with the way that Mulder looks at her, makes Scully feel as though they’re developing their own, private language.

She’s never known a man who wasn’t intimidated by her intelligence before, and it’s a heady feeling, not having to hold anything back. He wants to know all the books she’s read that have challenged her or changed her worldview, and all of her thoughts on them, and if he’s read them, he’s excited to discuss them. They have spirited debates on whether Sigmund Freud was a genius or simply full of himself, and on the superiority of French wines versus German wines (she actually breaks out bottles from her stores to make her point), and whether Beethoven or Mozart was the better composer.

She’d also learned that he’d had a younger sister, but that she’s been dead for a long time- a subject it’s clear he doesn’t wish to discuss.

She’s also found that Mulder is a gentleman. To an extreme- and extremely frustrating- extent.

It’s not that Scully is a loose woman, by any means. She’s no blushing virgin, it’s true, which she supposes would make her loose in the eyes of many of her neighbors. She knows how to communicate what she wants, that’s all. Or, at least, she’s always thought that she knew how. But all the doe-eyes and subtle touches in the world don’t seem to be enough to move Mulder to any sort of action, and now, after nearly two weeks of sitting here with him every night, she’s all but ready to put him up against a wall.

Probably not the sort of thing her mother imagined when she’d joked about Mulder and her daughter “courting.”

He notices the pies she’s begun selling, which takes her by surprise. He’s even more perceptive than she’d thought. Luckily, though, he takes her explanation of trying to make a little extra money during Christmas at face value. She changes the subject before he can ask any more.

“Speaking of Christmas, and of my mother,” she says, “I’ve been instructed to invite you to join us for Christmas Dinner.” To say that Mulder is surprised would be an understatement, and she can’t really blame him.

“Your… your mother? Why would she do that?”

“I’ve told her about you,” says Scully. “I told her all about your Lancelot impersonation, how you defended me even though it could have gotten you in trouble. She knows you were conscripted, she knows you don’t want to be here. And I mentioned that I was sorry you’d have to spend Christmas in the camp, since the cafe will be closed.” She pauses, not wanting to offend him… then ploughs ahead. “I get the impression you don’t have many friends there.”

“What makes you think that?” He doesn’t look offended… just sad.

“You wouldn’t be spending every night here with me, if you had friends in your unit to spend your off hours with,” she points out. He leans forward, his gaze intense, and suddenly, she’s got chills.

“Scully,” he says, “no matter how many friends I may or may not have in camp, I would still be spending every night here with you.” And the way he’s looking at her, like she’s the first and only woman he’s ever laid eyes on in his life, says all too clearly that he’s serious. Her face flushes with pleasure.

“So will you come?” she asks. “I can promise there will be more pie.” Mulder laughs.

“It would be an honor,” he says.

——————

Mass on Christmas Day seems to go on forever. Scully wouldn’t have come at all, except that she’d promised her mother, who bustles off as soon as it’s over to make sure that everything is prepared for Christmas dinner. Scully returns to the cafe, checks to be sure that tomorrow’s dough is rising, and goes out front to wait for Mulder.

She’s slightly nervous about introducing him to her mother. Not because she thinks either of them will dislike the other- she knows instinctively that they’ll get on well- but because it seems to bring another dimension to whatever is happening between the two of them. Not that anything has happened yet, exactly, but she’s certainly hoping it will.

And if he doesn’t make whatever it is happen soon, she’s going to have to take matters into her own hands.

Mulder arrives exactly when Scully had told him to, his hands tucked deep into the pockets of his uniform coat against the cold December air. He strides up to her, bends down (he really is tall, she forgets, until moments like this), and kisses her cheek, long and lingering. She’s half a heartbeat from turning her head and capturing his lips when he straightens up, grinning hugely.

“Merry Christmas, Scully,” he says.

“Merry Christmas, Mulder,” she replies, taking his arm. “Pleasant holiday so far?”

“Not terrible,” he says. “I spent most of it on my own, reading. Probably the best I could hope for, with the cafe being closed.” She smiles, on the verge of telling him that she’d missed him, today. “And yours?”

“Mass was interminable,” she says, “but I promised my mother I would go, so there was no way out of it, really. And yesterday we had letters from both of my brothers, so my mother is happy to know they’re both safe.” She and her mother had cried, together, over their letters. Neither missive had been particularly long- the Scully boys are men of few words- but just knowing that they were both whole and healthy had been enough of a Christmas gift for both Scully and her mother.

“Nothing from your sister?” And that’s enough for Scully’s mood to dip, at least a little. She loves her sister, but she hates how thoughtless Melissa can sometimes be, how she makes their mother worry.

“No, nothing,” she says. “But that’s not really a surprise. Knowing Melissa, she probably doesn’t even realize it’s December, much less Christmas. She’ll blow into town one day, months from now, wearing harem pants or something equally ridiculous, thinking she’s been gone three months instead of three years. She’ll stir up a barrage of new rumors and whispers all over town, and just as it’s dying down, she’ll disappear again.” She shakes her head. “Honestly, I try not to think about her too much when she’s not here, because if I do, I’ll just worry. And I’m already worried about my brothers all the time as it is.” Mulder squeezes her hand where it holds his arm, and she leans against him for just a moment. “How about you? Any word from your family for the holidays?” He looks away, and Scully is immediately sorry for asking.

“No,” he replies. “My parents and I don’t really speak much. I haven’t had a letter from either of them in awhile… not for over a year, in fact. I think they assume that if something happened to me, my unit commander would contact them, but beyond that….” He shrugs. “We weren’t very close to begin with, and Samantha’s murder was hard on the entire family. It made the distance between the three of us even greater.” Scully stops dead in her tracks.

Murdered. Losing a sibling is already one of the most terrible things Scully can imagine… but to have his sister murdered? Much of Mulder’s melancholy is immediately explained. She wants to take him in her arms right there in the middle of the road and hold him against her.

“Your sister was murdered? Oh, Mulder… that’s horrible. I’m so sorry.” He doesn’t look at her for a moment, and when he does, his smile is strained, forced.

“I’ll tell you about it sometime,” he promises, “but not tonight, all right? It’s too sad a story for Christmas.” She gives him a penetrating look, which he brushes off. “Scully, I haven’t had a truly enjoyable holiday in a long, long time. I’m really looking forward to this dinner… can we leave it for another day?” She nods.

“Of course,” she says, and they continue along the road out of town, toward Maggie Scully’s farm.

As they pass the front gate, into the yard, Mulder takes in the livestock- the cows, the goats, the chickens- and the orchards beyond. She guesses there’s more to her mother’s farm than he’d expected.

“Your mother manages all of this herself?” he asks, and she nods.

“She has two hired hands who help out,” she explains. “She brings in more men when the fruit is in season. This farm provides most of what I need for the cafe, and what isn’t produced here- the flour, sugar, coffee, the sandwich meats- I’m able to trade for with the extra milk, butter, eggs, and preserves we have left over.” Phillipe, the draft horse her mother has had since they’d first moved back to France, after Scully’s father’s death, trots to the edge of his paddock as they pass, and Scully stops to pat his nose. “I come and help with the milking, most mornings,” she says. “My brothers used to take care of the manual labor, before they left. Now they send money when they can to help us afford the extra hands.” It’s not entirely a lie- one of the men who works on the farm is a hired man from town; the other, currently going by the name of Albert Marchand, is a French Jew, staying here with his family until their passage to Spain or Switzerland can be arranged.

“Now I feel guilty keeping you up so late every night,” comments Mulder. “You must be exhausted, getting up that early.”

“Oh, no, please don’t feel bad,” Scully tells him firmly. The last thing she wants is for him to feel as though he’s an imposition, when she spends every day looking forward to sitting and talking with him. “Our evenings together have become the high point of my day, Mulder. You have no idea how much I’ve come to enjoy them.” Mulder puts a hand on her arm, stopping their progress towards the house. The intensity on his face makes her breath catch in her throat, and she has a feeling that maybe, finally, her signals to him have gotten through. Perhaps more drastic action will not be necessary, after all.

“I think I do, Scully,” he murmurs. “I can’t even begin to tell you what it’s meant to me.” He’s leaning down, Scully’s mind screams at her, and her heart leaps. He’s leaning down, he’s going to kiss me, it’s taken him weeks but it’s about to happen…. She stretches up to meet him… and she’s so close that she can taste his breath between them when, suddenly, the farmhouse door flies open behind them. Scully whirls to face her mother, whose expression says all too clearly that she knows exactly what she’s just interrupted.

“Dana, darling, bring your friend in here before you both freeze. It’s far too cold to be standing around outside!” she calls. Scully sighs and smiles up at Mulder, who looks as though he’s wishing he’d moved just a little bit faster. Remember that next time, she wants to tell him, but instead, she takes his arm and leads him to the front door, where Maggie is waiting expectantly.

“Maman,” she says, “I’d like you to meet Fox Mulder. Mulder, this is my mother, Marguerite Scully.” Maggie all but melts when Mulder kisses her hand, and Scully knows she’s going to be getting an earful later. No matter how nervous Mulder might be about meeting Scully’s mother, between the story of his coming to Scully’s rescue, an the actual, handsome reality him, he’s already won her over.

“Fox, it’s lovely to meet you,” she says, and Scully sighs. She’s had this conversation with her mother ahead of time.

“I’ve told you, Maman, he doesn’t like to be called Fox, it’s-”

“Mulder, I know, I know,” says Mrs. Scully, dismissing her concerns with a casual wave. “I’m sorry, but I simply can’t call a guest by nothing but his surname all night. Fox is a perfectly lovely name.” Mulder chuckles.

“Fox is just fine, Mrs. Scully,” he says, and Scully can’t resist narrowing her eyes at him. Fine? Since when is using his first name fine? He doesn’t let her get away with it. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Scully hangs back a moment as her mother continues down the hall. She grabs Mulder’s arm, and he glances down at her.

“You won’t let me call you Fox,” she hisses, wounded.

“Did you really want to that badly?” he whispers back, smiling playfully. Oh, is that how it is? she thinks. Well, two can play at that game. She returns his teasing smile.

“Maybe sometimes,” she whispers, leaning closer to him for just a moment, smirking at his sharp intake of breath, before taking his arm and leading him after her mother.

——–

Hours later, walking back to town, Scully keeps as close to Mulder as she can, enjoying his warmth, his arm threaded through hers, the sweet, contented way he smiles at her every so often. They’re moving slowly by unspoken agreement, neither one of them wanting to end the evening yet. As they make their way down the high street, dark windows on either side of them, Scully wonders: would Mulder think her too forward if she were to invite him up for a bit? Not for anything untoward- at least, not yet- but just because she’s not ready to relinquish his company. The quiet of the empty flat that’s waiting for her upstairs doesn’t hold the slightest bit of appeal.

What’s happening to me? Scully wonders distractedly. When have I ever been anything but happy at the idea of being alone? Solitude has always been precious to her, ever since childhood. But suddenly, the idea of going back upstairs by herself is not one she relishes. Mulder seems to be thinking along the same lines, and he slows their pace even further as they get closer to the cafe.

“Was that your idea, inviting me to dinner again on Sunday?” he asks. Scully smiles. She’d known, before the meal had been half-over, that her mother would invite him again; she’d been thoroughly charmed by him. Mulder, of course, had found the idea difficult to believe.

“Not at all,” says Scully. “She really liked you.”

“I’m touched, says Mulder.

"I’m glad she asked,” sighs Scully, as they draw level with her front door. “I won’t get to see you on Sundays otherwise, with the cafe being closed for the day.” A voice in the back of her head chides her for sounding so needy, but Mulder’s smile says he doesn’t mind.

“You won’t get sick of me?” he chuckles.

“Never,” she murmurs, and she turns to face him, leaning against his chest ever so slightly, gazing up at him, all but batting her eyelashes, more than ready to grab him, this time, and take over, should he prove too timid, but- praise God- it’s looking like this time, he’s ready.

Or not.

Mulder suddenly jerks back, and Scully, confused, wonders why, until the sound of a man clearing his throat makes her jump in surprise. Turning towards the street, along with Mulder, she comes face to face with Hauptmann Skinner, and, puffing away on a cigarette, a man she recognizes immediately, though she’s never spoken to him, as the commander of Mulder’s regiment.

“Oberst Spender, Hauptmann Skinner,” says Mulder, saluting both men briskly. The panicked tone of his voice, the way he stands slightly in front of her, partially shielding her from view, tugs at her heartstrings. He’s trying to protect her again… and from what she knows of Spender, she appreciates it.

“I trust your holiday was enjoyable?” asks Spender, in German, and Scully arranges her face into an expression of polite confusion. “And you, Fraulein Scully? Has this season been profitable for your business?” Scully remains silent, praying that Mulder will catch on and play along, even though he has no way of knowing why she’s pretending not to understand Spender. And, bless him, he does. He translates his commander’s question into French.

“Yes, sir,” she answers, still in French. “Your men have been most gracious. I appreciate their business.” Spender smiles thinly and nods.

“Curfew is still in effect, even on Christmas,” says Spender. “I would suggest, Fraulein, that you would do well to be indoors. The men have been celebrating the holiday, and I would hate for anything… unfortunate… to occur.” Mulder relays this through a clenched jaw, and Scully nods, backing towards her door, retrieving her key from her skirt pocket.

“I’ll see you tomorrow evening, then?” she asks him.

“I think not, Mademoiselle Scully,” Spender says, in French, his smile sickeningly smug. “Obersoldat Mueller is long overdue for nighttime guard duty, and it’s time we corrected that.” _No_ , Scully just barely stops herself from crying out, both in response to Spender’s edict, and to Mulder, whose face tells her all too clearly that he’s about to say something rash and make things worse for himself- for both of them. She reaches out and lays a gentle hand on his arm, leaving it there until he looks down at her. She tries to tell him, without words, to let it go- he can still come and see her during the day, it’s only a week, and if he protests, much worse will likely be handed down, in short order.

Mulder’s face relaxes as he understands, without a word between them, what she’s trying to tell him. He covers her hand with his briefly, nods, and steps back.

“Best to get inside now,” continues Spender. “The punishment for violating curfew is rather harsh, you know.” Scully cannot quite keep from glaring at him before turning quickly, slipping back into the cafe, and locking the door behind her. Through the curtains on the front windows, she sees Mulder stalking away. Spender and Skinner remain standing out front. Quietly, without turning on any lights, Scully makes her way upstairs to the parlor, where the windows face forward, over the street. She cracks one silently and crouches beneath it, listening intently.

“…wondering if such an association is good for him,” Spender is saying. “I know his father would certainly never approve.”

“I think it’s harmless,” Skinner counters. “I’ve spoken with Fraulein Scully myself often enough. She’s not interested in causing trouble; only in holding onto her business.”

“I worry about his being improperly influenced,” Spender says. “A pretty girl like that could easily turn his head.”

“With all due respect, I think you’re worrying too much about it,” says Skinner. “Obersoldat Mulder-”

“Mueller,” says Spender firmly. “I don’t care that some distant relative of his was once Dutch; he’s German, and he damn well better act like it. None of this ‘Mulder’ nonsense.”

“It’s simply not a battle that I choose to fight,” says Skinner mildly. “He does his duty. He doesn’t make trouble. He obeys orders. I’ll call him any damn thing he wants me to as long as he keeps all of that up.” Spender grunts unintelligibly. “He’s a good soldier- and above all else, he’s a gentleman. He won’t act inappropriately. I doubt very much that a simple infatuation is going to compromise his morals at all.” Skinner’s voice is growing fainter as the men move off down the high street. “My bigger concern, at the moment, is the conduct of some of my other men. The ones who don’t care in the slightest how many bastards they leave behind.”

“They’re bored soldiers with natural urges,” Spender says, unconcerned, and now Scully can barely hear them. “They’re going to find outlets for it one way or another, and I would rather….” His voice trails off as the men turn the corner, and Scully closes the window, sliding down to sit on the floor beneath it.

She tries hard to keep her temper in check, to not dwell on the soldiers in her village who are satisfying their so-called “natural urges” by offering poor women food in exchange for the use of their bodies. She’s doing as much as she can to give them an alternate source of food, but she can only do so much. Spender’s callous attitude towards them makes her dislike him even more than she already had.

Skinner’s more right than he knows, however: Mulder certainly is a gentleman. In fact, Scully is currently plotting ways to convince him to be a bit less of a gentleman. And while a week’s deprivation from the quiet evenings they’ve been enjoying will be difficult, to say the least, she’s confident that, by the end of it, she’ll have figured out how to inspire much more from him than a simple kiss on the cheek.


	3. Chapter 3

ORADOUR-SUR-GLANE, HAUTE-VIENNE, FRANCE  
LATE DECEMBER 1943

“Champagne? Are you serious?”

“Come on, Frohike. I’ll pay. How much?”

“It’s not a question of price, my dear.”

“Don’t call me what. What is it a question of, then?” From his perch at her dining room table, Melvin Frohike heaves an exasperated sigh.

“There’s none to be had, Dana,” he says. “What little there was has been confiscated by German officers. If anyone, anywhere has some left, they’re keeping it for themselves.” He frowns at her inquisitively. “What do you need it to trade for? Maybe we can help.”

“I don’t need it to trade for anything, Frohike,” says Scully. “It’s for personal use. For New Year’s.”

“Ahhhhh, I see,” says Frohike, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. “Entertaining a gentleman caller, are we?”

“It’s none of our business, Frohike,” says John Byers, frowning disapprovingly down at his friend. “We can’t get champagne. That’s all she’s asked for.” Frohike rolls his eyes, and Byers turns to Scully. “Is there anything else you need? Anything you’re short on?”

“Bandages,” Scully says. “Iodine… and antibiotics. I need a place to get all of those things, other than the pharmacy in the village. The pharmacist is starting to ask questions.”

“We’ll see what we can find,” says Frohike. “Bandages shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Iodine, either,” chimes in Richard Langly, from his lookout at the window. “Antibiotics, though… that’s a tough one.”

“They’re necessary,” counters Scully. “Without them, I’ll only be sending refugees out of here to die before they can get where you’re taking them. They’ll be sicker, more difficult for you to transport. It’ll be much more dangerous.”

“Is there anyone you can send to the pharmacy in your stead?” asks Byers.

“I already send my mother sometimes,” Scully says.

“What about your contact in the German army?” asks Langly, but Scully shakes her head.

“He’s too high-ranking,” she says. She thinks, suddenly, of Mulder. Could she give him money and ask him to buy what she needs at the pharmacy from time to time, as a favor? Claim she’s too busy to get there herself?

No, she’s not comfortable with lying to him outright, with using him like that.

“I’ll think of something,” she says, finally. “In the meantime, see what you can do, all right?”

“And I’ll keep my ear to the ground for your champagne,” promises Frohike, standing, “but I can tell you right now it’s not going to happen.” He looks apologetic. “I wish I could tell you otherwise.”

“I appreciate you trying,” she says, as she rises to escort them back downstairs. “Three o'clock Wednesday morning. All three of you. All right?”

“Got it,” says Frohike. “Any idea what shape the next one’s going to be in?”

“No, and that’s why I need all of you,” says Scully. “My contact only knows he’s hurt. Nothing about the extent of his injuries.”

“So it could be a body we’re carrying out of here by the time we arrive, for all we know,” sighs Langly.

“Which is exactly why I need new ways to get those antibiotics,” says Scully. “Now get moving.”

———————

At the start of December, Scully would never have described her evenings as “lonely.” Solitary, yes, but she’d had things to occupy her time, once the cafe had been closed for the evening.

It’s amazing, though, how quickly she’d become accustomed to spending every evening with Mulder. The silence in the kitchen seems strange now, somehow, as she goes about her business, washing dishes, kneading bread dough, settling her accounts, tallying up the day’s earnings and stashing them away. It’s true that she’d still been alone while doing these tasks for the past two weeks, but then, she’d been rushing through them after hours spent out in the dining room, talking, and there had been far less time to ponder her solitude.

Scully has been trying very hard to remind herself that, however much she might be enjoying whatever is developing between Mulder and herself, it’s destined to be temporary. His regiment is the fourth to be stationed in Oradour-Sur-Glane since the beginning of the occupation, and they’ve already stayed longer than the three units before them. Sooner or later, they’ll be relocated… or, in the event of an Allied victory, they’ll be forcibly expelled. Chances are, at some point, they’ll be needed for an engagement elsewhere, and for all she knows, they could all end up killed.

She tries not to dwell on the last possibility… but still, it is a possibility. And one way or another, the fact remains that she cannot afford to get attached. Her dismay at suddenly being alone each evening has served to reinforce that simple fact.

She can enjoy Mulder’s company, certainly- their conversations are the high point of her day. And she recognizes that, whatever the Church and her mother might claim, women have many of the same needs for companionship and comfort that men do, and she sees nothing wrong with her and Mulder fulfilling those needs for each other. But to look at it as anything more than a temporary arrangement? Madness.

The trouble is… she has a very hard time remembering any of that when she’s actually in his presence. Even more troubling is the fact that his demeanor says, all too clearly, that he is entertaining very few of the same doubts that she is. His eyes speak volumes every time he looks at her, and she has very little trouble imagining what’s going on behind them.

Scully has had men in love with her before- or, at least, she’s had men who have fancied themselves in love with her. She’s had two lovers, since coming home to care for her mother five years ago. One had been a hired hand on her mother’s farm, who had been conscripted into the French army at the start of the war. The other had been a British soldier, stationed nearby on his way to the front. Both had professed that they had been smitten- though, in the case of the soldier, she’s relatively certain it had been a case of heightened emotion in the face of danger, the romantic notion that he ought to be leaving behind a girl worth fighting for.

She had been fond of both of them. Nothing more.

She’d felt something more for Sebastien, the professor with whom she had carried on an affair for most of her third year of medical school, and she’d thought, then, that it had been love… but when her regard for him had shriveled so quickly and so completely in the face of his insistence that, were they to marry, she could not continue her studies, she had been forced to admit that it had been simple infatuation. She’s certain that, had she truly been in love with him, the end of their relationship would have hurt her. Instead, it had come as a relief.

Mulder, though… Mulder is somehow different.

It could be that he’s not intimidated by her intellect, which is a fairly new experience for her. During her time in Paris, she had often been advised, by older women nearing the completion of their degrees, that it was wise for a woman not to flaunt her intelligence, lest she make the men pursuing her feel inferior. Since Scully had refused to do this, her gentlemen callers had been few and far between. But Mulder has made it clear that, to him, her mind is part of the attraction, not something that takes away from it.

It could also be that she senses the hurt in him, the unhappiness and helplessness in the face of what he sees as an un-winnable situation. He doesn’t want to be in the army, doesn’t want to have a hand in any of the horrors he sees happening around him, but he doesn’t see a way out, so he simply allows it to eat at him.

One way or another, Scully spends most of her time alone reminding herself of the many, many reasons why she cannot afford to get attached, why she must not, above all else, allow herself to fall in love… only to have it all fall to pieces the moment she’s actually in Mulder’s presence once again.

Tonight, though… tonight, she has other things she needs to focus on. At some point between ten and eleven o'clock, Walther Skinner will be making his way to the church, where he will be retrieving an injured British airman and, with the help of the priest, delivering him to the back door of the cafe shortly before midnight. Scully is to see to the man’s injuries and keep him in her flat until three o'clock in the morning, at which point Frohike and company will arrive and sneak him out of town under the cover of darkness to hand him off to one of their contacts traveling south.

Scully prepares her flat to receive her patient. She amasses her medical supplies, not knowing for certain which she’ll need, and puts a pillow and blanket on the sofa, so the man can rest for a bit, once he’s been treated. She makes sandwiches, some to eat here and some to take along, since meals are never guaranteed during the journey. She pours a glass of water, and brings out the whiskey, which is frequently the only thing she has to dull the pain, should it be necessary. When she’s finished, she goes downstairs, to the kitchen, to keep watch at the back window.

It’s not long after eleven-thirty when she sees two figures staggering along the alleyway behind the buildings. She opens the door as they draw near, and Walther Skinner staggers slowly inside with the airman, who is thankfully much smaller than he is, leaning heavily on his shoulder. Scully shuts the door quietly behind them and locks it.

“I told the priest to stay behind,” says Skinner. “No sense in him having to hide out in town all night when I could get us here without him.” Scully nods in agreement. Father Clemence is an invaluable resource with connections to priests working for the Resistance all over the country, but caught outside after curfew, he would be in just as much danger as any other French citizen.

“Can you get him upstairs?” asks Scully. She’ll treat him down here if she has to, but he’ll be more comfortable in her flat. Skinner nods and steers the man to the staircase, Scully following closely behind.

Once the airman is settled on the sofa, Skinner collapses into an armchair, exhausted. Scully pulls up her stool and sits by his head.

“What’s your name?” she asks the airman, in English. He opens his eyes and looks at her, surprised.

“American?” he asks. “What’re you doing here?”

“I’m a French citizen,” Scully says. “My father was American. Can you tell me your name?”

“Joe,” the man says. “Joseph McGovern.”

“Joe, I’m going to do what I can to help you,” Scully says in her best calm, soothing voice, “and then I want you to rest for a bit until our contacts arrive to move you. All right?” The weary soldier nods, and Scully gets to work.

Seventeen stitches across the abdomen later, with Scully and Skinner both worn out from holding the man down and working quickly, Joseph McGovern lies trembling on the sofa, covered with a blanket Scully has draped over him.

“Joe, close your eyes for a bit and try to sleep,” Scully says, wiping sweat from his face with a clean rag. “You’re safe here. I’ll wake you when it’s time for you to move on.” He nods, too worn out to speak, and closes his eyes. Scully stands and motions wordlessly for Skinner to follow her out of the room. She takes the bottle of whiskey with her.

In her bedroom, with the door closed behind them to keep the light and their voices from disturbing the man on the sofa, Scully sinks down to sit on the edge of her mattress with a sigh. She takes a generous swig of whiskey straight from the bottle, then offers it to Skinner, who does the same, casting his hat onto her nightstand before sitting beside her.

“Are you all right?” he asks. She nods.

“If I just had something to knock them out while I work on them,” she says, “this would be far easier.” She motions for the bottle, which Skinner gives her, and she takes another swallow. “But even if I did… it wouldn’t be safe to give them, not really, not when they might have to be moved again at a moment’s notice.” She looks up at him. “There’s no good way to go about this. Not really.”

“You’re doing the best you can, Dana,” Skinner reassures her, rubbing her shoulder. “You working on them might not be pleasant in the moment, but it’s saving their lives.”

“How long, though?” she asks. “I told my Dutch Paris contacts today that I need a new way to get antibiotics, but they don’t know if they can pull that off or not. And I can’t keep getting them from the village pharmacist.”

“We’ll think of something,” Skinner promises.

“And how long before your unit is ordered to relocate?” Scully asks. “Allied invasion could happen at any time. Everyone knows it. What happens when you’re told to move along?” She shakes her head. “Eventually, this is all going to fall apart.”

“Dana,” says Skinner, “no one’s asking you to keep this going forever. At some point things are going to change, for better or worse. One way or another there are going to be fewer refugees as time goes on, either because whoever can escape will already have done so, or because no one else can. And when the Allies do invade, Germany’s focus will be on them, not on people sneaking through the countryside. Invasion will send all sorts of people fleeing in all different directions. It may actually be easier to move people then than it is now.”

“But I have no guarantee you’ll be here to help,” says Scully, and something shifts in Skinner’s gaze, something that sets off alarm bells in Scully’s head. She realizes, too late, that she’s likely said the wrong thing- or, at least, phrased it the wrong way.

It’s confirmed when Skinner moves his hand from her shoulder to her cheek. Scully stops breathing all together as he caresses her gently.

“I’m doing everything I can to make sure I’m not going anywhere, Dana,” he says softly.

She thinks about it. She does. She entertains the idea… for two, maybe three seconds. And then she takes Skinner’s hand and removes it gently from her cheek. She gives it a squeeze and places it carefully on the mattress between them.

“That’s good, Walther,” she says, taking her own hand back. She stands and carefully places the whiskey bottle atop a chest of drawers, then turns back to him. “Because if I’m going to keep on doing this, I’m going to need your help as long as possible.” Skinner presses his lips together in a thin line and closes his eyes briefly. When he looks back at her, he’s resigned.

“Obersoldat Mulder will be finished with his nighttime guard rotation after Thursday,” he says, standing.

“Yes, he’s told me,” says Scully. Skinner nods.

“So presumably your evenings will be spoken for once again.” She could deny it, but there’s no use.

“Yes, I think it’s safe to say that,” she replies, and Skinner nods again. He retrieves his hat from her nightstand and puts it back on.

“You should try to get yourself some champagne,” he suggests. “For New Year’s.” Scully relaxes, smiling.

“I’ve tried,” she admits. “But I’m told it can’t be had, not for any price.” Skinner purses his lips thoughtfully.

“Give me a day or so,” he says. “I’ll see what I can do.” Scully smiles and crosses the room to him. She embraces him once, briefly, and kisses his cheek.

“I appreciate it, Walther,” she says sincerely. “Thank you.”

——————–

“Will you still be on guard duty Friday night?” Scully asks Mulder as they stand side-by-side at her kitchen sink. He’d completely taken her by surprise, moments ago, by abandoning his table in the dining room to rush back here and help her with the dishes that have been piling up all day. She’d protested, but he hadn’t been deterred.

“No, Thursday will be the last night,” Mulder replies, smiling down at her. “I’ll be a free man on Friday. Which reminds me-”

“Would you like to have dinner with me?” Scully forges ahead with the question she’s been building herself up to all week. But before she has the chance to get even the slightest bit nervous, she’s suddenly doused with dishwater as the bowl Mulder is washing slips from his hand and splashes back down into the sink.

“I’m so sorry!” Mulder’s face goes red with embarrassment, but Scully laughs, grateful for the break in the tension. She wipes her face with a dishtowel… then, after a moment’s hesitation, she raises herself to her toes, leaning against him slightly, and wipes his face off, as well, sending it into an even deeper shade of red.

“No harm done,” she says.

“You want to have dinner with me?” he asks. “On New Year’s Eve?”

“I’ll be closing the cafe at six,” she explains. “I thought you could come by at eight. Would that be all right?” She wonders, again, if he’ll think her too forward, but his smile is answer enough.

“I would love to, Scully,” he says. She feels warm all over, and it crosses her mind that now would be a perfectly natural time to try and kiss him again, while they’re alone back here… but before she gets the chance, the bell on the front counter sounds, and, with a regretful look at Mulder, she runs back out front.

If something doesn’t happen on New Year’s Eve, she is going to slowly but surely go insane.

——————-

Scully doesn’t manage to figure out how to get her hands on any champagne, but she does manage to procure a leg of lamb from the butcher next door. As soon as the cafe is closed, she heads upstairs and begins to prepare it, removing all but the largest shin bone and using a sharp knife to cut deep slits in the meat. She stuffs these with cloves of garlic and sprigs of rosemary, and rubs the entire thing down with butter, salt, and pepper. She cuts potatoes into thin slices and layers them at the bottom of a deep pan, balances the lamb on a rack above it, and puts the entire dish into the oven to roast. Soon, her entire flat is suffused with a heavenly aroma. She sets vegetables over the stove top to boil and removes the cherry pie she’d bakes yesterday from the cupboard, then goes to change her clothing and get ready.

In her bedroom, Scully selects the most daring, most revealing dress she owns- which is not, sadly, all that revealing. It shows more, certainly, than her customary work skirts and blouses, but perhaps not quite as much as she would like. What she wants, if she’s being honest with herself, is to drive Mulder absolutely mad with desire, to make it impossible for him to resist her.

She flushes with a tingling heat as a vision invades her mind: Mulder, seated on her living room sofa, with her astride him, her carefully-chosen dress rucked up around her hips, Mulder hot and hard and thick between her thighs… she shudders and banishes the image. For the time being, at least. It’s not likely to happen tonight; she very much doubts that Mulder is ready.

She carefully styles her hair, applies a bit of makeup (for once grateful to Melissa for insisting that she learn at least a little bit about what Scully had once termed “ridiculous face-painting”), and dabs perfume at her wrists and neck. She removes the finished lamb from the oven, drains the vegetables and coats them in butter, and when everything is out on the table, she goes downstairs to wait for Mulder.

If, some day in the future, Scully ever finds herself feeling down, feeling unattractive for any reason, she thinks she’ll be able to remember Mulder’s face the moment he sees her in the cafe window, and she’ll never be able to feel anything but beautiful again. He quite literally stops in his tracks, right in the middle of the road, and when he finally coaxes himself into moving again, he walks like a man unsure of whether or not he’s dreaming. She opens the door to let him in, and he stands stock-still in the doorway, gazing down at her.

“Wow,” he breathes, and she just barely keeps herself from chuckling at his punch-drunk expression as she takes his hand and brings him inside, shutting and locking the door behind him. When she turns back to him, he’s withdrawing a bottle from within his overcoat, and he face lights up when she sees what it is.

“Where did you manage to find this?” she asks, taking the bottle of champagne from him. “I wanted to get us some, but it was impossible.”

“It was a gift from Hauptmann Skinner,” says Mulder. “He instructed me to share it with you.” For a moment, Scully is afraid she’s going to get choked up. Most men, she’s certain, even if they had not been offended by a woman turning down their romantic advances, no matter how gently, would not have gone so far as to assist a rival in wooing her. Walther Skinner is a man in a thousand.

They dig into their holiday feast with gusto, Mulder complimenting Scully repeatedly on her cooking, as they make their way slowly through Skinner’s bottle of champagne.

“How did your family celebrate the New Year when you were a child?” he asks her.

“When my father was alive, he liked to take us down to the docks,” Scully says, “or to the beach. Sometimes there would be fireworks, and there would always be stands selling ice cream, right up until midnight.” She smiles. “Somehow or other, ice cream at eleven o'clock at night always tasted better than ice cream in the middle of the day.” Mulder chuckles and nods, understanding. “After he’d passed away and we moved back here, we always spent the New Year quietly, with our neighbors in their homes.” She shrugs. “It didn’t seem right, especially at first, to have such a loud celebration when Papa wasn’t around to enjoy it with us.”

“I wish I could have met him,” says Mulder, and then grimaces. “Maybe out of uniform, though.” Scully smiles.

“Out of uniform, I think he would have liked you,” she says sincerely, and then, to change the subject, she asks, “How about you? How did your family celebrate New Year’s?” Immediately she regrets asking when his face sobers. She curses herself for forgetting: he doesn’t like to talk about his family. Still, though, he answers.

“My father always went out for the evening with his partners at his firm,” Mulder says. “My mother… preferred to celebrate alone. Samantha and I usually just took advantage of the opportunity to stay up extra-late without any parental supervision.” He takes a thoughtful drink of his champagne. “Not that we had a good deal of it the other three-hundred and sixty-four days of the year.” He shakes his head as though clearing away the unpleasant memories. “When I was at Oxford, though, my friends and I always made a big night of it.” He ducks his head, embarrassed. “My first year, I let being away from my parents go to my head and I drank rather more than what could be considered reasonable, even for New Year’s Eve.” Scully laughs. “My friends thought it would be amusing to goad me into flirting with a woman sitting in the corner of the pub where we were drinking, and I did… and later found out that she was the wife of one of my professors.” Scully laughs so hard that she nearly chokes on her champagne.

When they’ve finished eating and have cleared the dishes (Scully insists she’ll wash them later; she doesn’t want to waste a single second on things she can do any time), they retire to the parlor, where Scully coaxes Mulder to sit beside her on the sofa. He’s adorably timid, which only reinforces her earlier notion that he is not ready for the fantasy she had envisioned earlier, while getting dressed. She wonders to herself: what is he ready for?

“Is something wrong?” he asks her, and she realizes she probably looks troubled.

“No, of course not,” she says. “I’m just….” She bites her lower lip thoughtfully. “I want to suggest something, but I’m not sure how you’ll take it.” Mulder’s eyebrows raise in surprise. “Nothing like that!” she reassures him. “No, I… well, I know you’re not in the army by your own choice, and I know from what you’ve told me that you have no real love for Hitler… but….” She glances at the radio she had brought over from her mother’s some time back. “Mulder, what are your thoughts on music and dancing?” He smiles, pleased.

“I’m quite fond of both,” he says, and Scully relaxes.

“I know there are kinds of music that Hitler has forbidden,” she says. “Am I safe in assuming you think as much of that as you do of the rest of his policies?”

“Very safe,” he says. She smiles.

“All right, then,” she says, and she stands, crossing to the radio. She scans through the available stations, holding her breath, hoping… and then, clear as a bell, the clarinet solo of Artie Shaw’s “Begin the Beguine” fills the little room. “I don’t know where they’re broadcasting from, and sometimes they’ll go quiet for days at a time,” she says, turning back to Mulder, “but this station plays the most wonderful music.” She places her champagne flute on the end table and holds out her hand to him.

“Mulder, will you dance with me?” Mulder beams, and she feels a thrilling rush of pleasure that in moments, she’ll finally be in his arms. He puts down his own glass and stands, taking her hand.

“Scully, there’s nothing I’d like more.”

The song isn’t as slow as Scully would like, but still, she’s closer to Mulder than she’s been yet, and it feels sublime. He’s not a bad dancer, moving her around what little space they have between the sofa and the armchairs, twirling her around, making her giggle- something she hasn’t done in… she can’t even remember when. Certainly not since the last time Melissa had been home.

She’s enjoying herself, certainly, but she’s more than ready to get closer… so when the song ends and “Moonlight Serenade” begins to play, she takes it as a sign. Scully looks up at him, and his beautiful hazel eyes fix on hers. They’re asking a question, waiting, as always, for her to tell him what she’s ready for. She doesn’t think he’s quite prepared for the honest answer to that question, so she settles for stepping closer and laying her head against his shoulder, sliding her arm as tightly around his neck as she can and curling her other hand, the one holding his, against his chest.

She can hear his heart speed up where her ear is pressed against him, and, taking a deep, shuddering breath, he rests his cheek against the top of her head. They sway softly, slowly… and as much as Scully has been yearning for more than this, craving it, even, she suddenly wishes she could stop time and stay like this with him forever.

 _Temporary_ , the panicking voice in the back of her head screams at her. This is only temporary, can only ever be temporary… but for once, she silences her rational side, choosing instead to snuggle closer to him. As they make another slow rotation of the room, the clock above the fireplace comes back into her view.

“Mulder, look,” she says softly, lifting her head from his chest and pointing at the clock. The minute hand is poised to strike midnight. Scully watches Mulder watching the clock as it begins to chime, and when he looks back down at her, she knows there’s no way he can possibly miss the expectant look in her eyes. Slowly, he lowers his head until their lips are touching softly.

 _Well, this won’t do at all_ , Scully thinks to herself, and without a second’s hesitation, she presses herself tightly against him, taking his head in her hands and pulling his entire body flush against hers. She parts her lips, and at the first touch of her tongue, he inhales sharply through his nose and tightens his hold on her, practically lifting her into the air in his enthusiasm.

It’s the first time she’s seen fireworks at New Years in a very, very long time.

The kiss goes on and on, and when it finally ends it’s because they’re both out of breath and unable to keep going- at least not just yet. Mulder takes a moment to gather himself together before he regains his power of speech. He leans his forehead against hers, breathing hard.

“Happy New Year, Scully,” he says finally, and she smiles, winding her fingers into the hair at the back of his head.

“Happy New Year, Mulder.”


	4. Chapter 4

ORADOUR-SUR-GLANE, HAUTE-VIENNE, FRANCE  
EARLY JANUARY 1944

“So your New Year’s Eve was pleasant, then?” Maggie Scully asks as she bastes a roast in its own juices in preparation for returning it to the oven.

“Very,” says Scully, chopping carrots at the kitchen counter and throwing them into the roasting pan by the handful.

“And that’s all I’m going to hear about it? That it was ‘very pleasant?’” Scully rolls her eyes and brings the knife down unnecessarily hard, scattering carrot tops all over the cutting board.

“What exactly did you want to hear, Maman?” she asks. “That he made violent love to me on the counter next to the cash register?”

“Dana!” Maggie flips a dishtowel at her daughter, who yelps as it catches her across the shoulder. “There’s no need to be vulgar! All I wanted to know was whether or not you and Fox had a nice evening.”

“Yes, we did,” Scully sighs. “He brought a bottle of champagne that his captain had given him. We had a lovely dinner, we listened to the radio, we talked, we danced a bit, and that was it.” Maggie raises her eyebrows, smiling.

“And is he a good dancer?” Scully ducks her head, blushing slightly.

“Yes, he is,” she murmurs. “Very good.” Her mother gives a haughty, knowing smirk, and returns the pan of meat, now nestled in a bed of carrots, onions, and potatoes, to the oven. Scully frowns slightly as the door is closed. “This is an awful lot of food for just the three of us,” she remarks, checking the bowl of dough rising on the counter, waiting to become a loaf of bread to accompany their dinner. “Were you trying to save me the trouble of roasting meat for the week’s sandwiches?”

“I’ve asked Albert and his family to join us,” Maggie says, and Scully turns and stares at her, aghast.

“Maman, you didn’t,” she moans, shaking her head.

“I did,” says Maggie. “It’s a holiday. They should enjoy a nice, relaxed meal with company. There’s no reason for them to hide in the barn.”

“But Mulder will be here,” protests Scully. “In his uniform, no less. How, exactly, are the Marchands supposed to enjoy a nice, relaxed meal at the same table as a man in a Nazi uniform?”

“I did at Christmas,” says Maggie.

“Yes, you did, but the Nazis aren’t hunting you, Maman,” counters Scully. “And even if Albert and Sophie can manage to ignore the uniform for the evening, I very much doubt that Helene and Christine will. They’re going to be terrified.”

“It’ll be fine, I’m sure,” Maggie insists.

But it isn’t.

Scully tries to prepare the Marchands, regaling them with the story of how Mulder had broken another soldier’s nose in her defense, but she can tell that they’re not convinced, and she doesn’t blame them. The Marchands- as their forged documents now name them (Scully doesn’t even know their real names- it’s safer that way)- had fled their home in northern France some months before, and had been smuggled through the countryside to Oradour-sur-Glane. Soon, they’ll be moved again, either to Spain or to Switzerland, depending on which route is the easiest. They are all four well-acquainted with the sound of German boots on French streets, and the sight of a German uniform, for them, signals nothing but death and danger. The girls, in particular, find the prospect of a soldier joining them for dinner terrifying, having witnessed men dressed just like Mulder beating and even shooting people in their village.

The dinner is torturous for everyone. Mulder tries valiantly to make conversation, to be friendly, to convince the Marchands that he is not a threat, but it’s to no avail. Scully watches, dismayed, as Mulder’s spirits sink further and further in response to the rebuffing of each attempted friendly overture. She can read in his face, all too clearly, that as far as he’s concerned, their reaction is totally justified- not because of the uniform he wears, but because of who he is. Not for the first time, she wonders: what is it that’s happened to him that’s convinced him that he is so wholly undeserving of anyone’s regard?

When the meal is complete, Maggie tries to convince Mulder to stay a bit longer and enjoy some coffee, but he begs off. Scully doesn’t want to see him go, but given the fact that the Marchand girls have looked close to tears all evening, even she has to concede that it’s probably for the best.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers to him in the front hall, as she hands him his coat. “I didn’t know ahead of time that Maman had asked them to eat with us. I feel terrible that that was so uncomfortable.”

“It’s not your fault, Scully. And it’s not theirs, either.” He sighs as he does up his buttons. “Your mother’s willing to forgive what I am and where I come from, but that’s only because she has it in her head that I rescued you from dire peril.”

“You did,” says Scully, but Mulder shakes his head ruefully.

“Please, Scully. I might not have realized it then, but I know you well enough by now to know that if I hadn’t been there, you would have taken care of the situation all by yourself. You didn’t need me to save you.” The way he states the simple fact of her self-reliance as something admirable, and not as an unfortunate character flaw, warms her from the inside out. She loves the way that he sees her… she only wishes she could get him to see himself in a more positive light, as well.

“But you did anyway,” she tells him. “Mulder, you’re not like them. You never asked to be here, you didn’t have a choice.”

“Yes, I did,” says Mulder stubbornly. “I could have ignored my conscription notice. I could have chosen prison instead. I could have just left the country, but I didn’t. I chose the path of least resistance.”

“The path of least resistance would have been to just sit back and watch the show when that soldier was putting his hands all over me,” says Scully, “but that’s not what you did. You got up, you took a stand, and you tried to protect me.” Mulder starts to shake his head again, but before he can speak, Scully brings his hands to her lips and gently kisses his fingertips. “There’s more good in you than you know, Fox Mulder. I hope that one day you can see that.”

It’s a simple enough thing to say, but Mulder’s face colors, and he looks down, unable to meet her eyes. Scully suddenly realizes that he’s almost moved to tears, and she finds that she wants to cry, as well. What’s been done to this man, that he thinks so poorly of himself? Before she can give into the temptation to begin a conversation she knows, instinctively, that he’s not ready for, she reaches for her shawl, hanging by the door, and wraps it around her shoulders. She takes his hand and tugs at it.

“Come on,” she says. “I’ll see you out.”

She shivers in the chill outside. Though part of her wishes she were about to walk back to town with Mulder, to put off the moment of parting, she’s also glad she’ll be able to return to the warmth of her mother’s house. It will hopefully be at least a bit warmer in the morning, after she helps her mother with the milking and heads back to town to run through the morning’s pre-opening tasks.

Thinking about opening the cafe tomorrow jogs her memory, and she reaches into her pocket, retrieving the key she’d placed there earlier in the evening.

“I nearly forgot- would you be able to do me a favor, Mulder?” She holds the key out to him.

“Of course,” he says, taking the key and raising his eyebrows, curious. “What’s this?”

“It’s my mother’s key to the cafe,” she explains. “There’s a large bowl of bread dough in the refrigerator that will need to come to room temperature before I work with it tomorrow morning. Would you mind stopping in and moving it to the kitchen counter?”

“No problem,” he says, taking the key and slipping it into his pocket. “Anything else I can do for you?” She debates for a split second, knowing full well her mother may be watching from one of the darkened windows. But she won’t be spending the evening with him, the way she wishes she were, and this is the only chance she’ll get.

“Yes,” she says decidedly, and seizes him by the front of his overcoat. She pulls his head down to hers and kisses him deeply, thoroughly, until her knees are weak and her head is swimming. He’s enthusiastic in his response, gathering her close and returning the kiss energetically- at least, until she feels something entirely unmistakeable pressing against her stomach, and he suddenly draws back, blushing so hard that she can see the red on his cheeks in the moonlight. He looks intensely embarrassed… but Scully simply glances down, then back up at him, smiling in a way she hopes will brook no doubts: she’ll be more than happy to investigate what he’s hiding there, as soon as the first opportunity arises. So to speak.

“You’ll be all right walking home?” she asks him. His eyes follow the movement of her lips, but he says nothing in response. “Mulder?”

“Yeah,” he says, his voice cracking. It takes a good deal of willpower to keep from giggling. “Yeah, I’ll be fine.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow night?”

“Count on it,” he replies. She lets him out of the gate and returns to the house. At the door she looks back to see Mulder still standing there, punch-drunk, a distracted smile still lingering on his face. She waves one more time, then retreats to the warmth inside of the house.

“Just dancing, hmmm?” Scully’s so completely unsurprised by her mother’s voice, coming from the front parlor (where she’s obviously been watching at the window), that she doesn’t jump. She sighs and turns to Maggie, whose hands are on her hips, her eyebrows somewhere up around her hairline.

“We may have kissed at midnight,” Scully concedes. “But what do you expect? It was New Year’s Eve.”

“It’s not New Year’s Eve now,” Maggie points out.

“Maman, do you really think my virtue was in danger, out in the front yard, in freezing temperatures? You can’t possibly tell me you never kissed Papa at all.”

“Maybe I did, but I knew I’d be marrying him,” says Maggie. “Is that what your intentions are with Fox?” Scully truly does not want to have this conversation.

“I have no intentions, Maman,” she says. “And I’m sure that Mulder doesn’t, either. We have no idea how long his unit will be stationed here.” She crosses her arms over herself, uncomfortable. “For all I know, they could be moved out next week.”

It’s troubling, how much the idea upsets her. She tries to convince herself that it’s just that she’s gotten used to Mulder’s company, that sitting with him each evening is a diversion, a distraction, a way to break up the monotony of her life. Her unhappiness at the possibility of his departure isn’t because she’s gotten attached.

It can’t be that she’s gotten attached.

“I’m tired, Maman,” she says suddenly. “I’m going up to bed.” She whirls on her heel amid her mother’s protests, shutting herself away in the safety and quiet of her childhood bedroom.

It’s too safe. It’s too quiet.

Alone in the dark, Scully allows herself to admit it: she wants Mulder here, with her, and not just to break up the monotony, not even to make love. She wants his arms around her, wants to be held in his warm embrace, to rest her head on his chest, to listen to his heartbeat against her ear… to feel loved.

To love him.

She holds her pillow tight against her chest and bites her lip until it bleeds. _Temporary_ , she tells herself firmly. _Temporary. Temporary._

——————–

On Friday, Walter Skinner hands her his empty pie tins, instead of placing them in the drop box out front. They’re sandwiched one atop the other.

“Best get them into the kitchen quickly,” he advises. “Before the crumbs and filling get stuck on, and you end up scrubbing for an hour.” She nods, taking his meaning immediately, and retreats to the kitchen, where she prizes the two pie tins carefully apart. Stuck between them is a tiny slip of paper, bearing the words: “Last-second cherry, to feed one, needed tonight, will pickup in the morning. Extra filling, please.” An Allied soldier, injured (the “extra filling” is a code they’ve agreed upon), arriving sometime tonight and being picked up for transport in the small hours of the morning. Scully sighs to herself. She’s been planning on asking Mulder to stay late tonight, but it’s looking like that will have to wait.

She returns to the dining room, where Skinner has taken a seat at a table. She nods to him.

“I think I should be able to have your pie ready for you. But you should really try to give me more notice, you know,” she chastises him.

“Are you worried you might be interrupted when I drop off an order?” Skinner asks, eyebrows raised. “Or when I pick an order up?”

“You never know,” Scully replies archly. Skinner regards her a moment longer; then, decisively, he nods.

“Duly noted,” he says. “I’ll do my best to give you advance warning from now on. My apologies if I’ve disturbed your plans for tonight.”

“I can reschedule,” she says with a shrug. She glances around the cafe. As early as it is, there are very few other patrons, and no other soldiers. Pulling out a chair, she seats herself across from Skinner, leaning her elbows on the table. “I had dinner with my mother and her hired hands about a week ago,” she tells him. “On New Year’s Day. My mother asked me to bring a guest.” She sighs. “It didn’t go well.”

“No, I can imagine it wouldn’t have been a comfortable meal,” Skinner agrees. “Your mother’s idea?”

“Inviting the farmhand and his family was Maman’s idea,” Scully says. “I had no idea she’d done it until it was too late to uninvite my guest.”

“Speaking of your dinner guest,” Skinner says, leaning closer and lowering his voice, “there’s been some talk around the camp.”

“Oh?” He nods.

“The… friendship… hasn’t gone unnoticed, not at all. Your… um….”

“My dinner guest?” Scully supplies, smiling. It’s unlikely anyone is listening, but still, better safe than sorry.“

"Yes,” says Skinner. “Your dinner guest. Your very regular dinner guest, this past week.” Scully holds Skinner’s gaze, refusing to blush. “The thing is, he’s been quite solitary until this point, so the fact that he’s spending time with someone isn’t likely to go unnoticed.” He leans even closer. “It would be to both of your benefits if it were to appear that you were getting something out of the arrangement other than the pleasure of his company.” Skinner bites his lip. “I don’t mean to insult you, but you know as well as I do that it’s less suspicious, as least for him, if it does not appear as though you are in any sort of position to influence him or his loyalties.” Scully’s not offended; Skinner is absolutely right. If it looks as though she’s sleeping with Mulder in exchange for financial assistance keeping her cafe supplied, it will appear to be nothing more than a business transaction, and therefore nothing serious.

If, however, Mulder appears to be in love with her… it would mean that she could possibly change his priorities, could convince him to desert, to pass her information, to sabotage his unit. The very idea would be enough for his commander to forbid the relationship, to find ways to keep them from seeing one another… possibly even arrest her and send her away.

“You’re right,” she says. “And if there’s anything you can do to help it appear he’s assisting me… any way you could get that rumor started….”

“I’ll do what I can,” Skinner says.

—————–

Knowing that an Allied soldier is expected at her back door sometime tonight, Scully spends most of the afternoon thinking of what to tell Mulder to convince him to leave much earlier than he normally would. She’s trying her absolute best not to be annoyed with Skinner, to keep her priorities in order… but the fact remains that she had arranged for Albert and Sophie Marchand to help her mother with the milking tomorrow so that she won’t need to be there in the morning, purely so that she could invite Mulder to stay the night… and now it’s all for nothing.

She realizes, as she’s stewing over it, that even though she has no need to be at the farm in the morning, claiming the exact opposite would be a valid reason to ask Mulder to leave before midnight. If he thinks she needs to go to bed early, he won’t interfere; he already seems to think his being there every evening is somehow an inconvenience to her, no matter how many times she’s assured him that she lives for the time they spend alone together.

Whoever in Mulder’s past has been responsible for completely destroying his self-confidence and sense of self-worth, Scully would pay dearly for an hour alone with them. With her brother’s baseball bat.

She breaks the news to Mulder as they’re relaxing on her sofa, having just finished several glasses of the lovely wine he had brought with him.

“I need to be at my mother’s unusually early tomorrow,” she tells him, after she’s set their empty glasses aside. “So as much as I don’t want to, I’ll have to throw you out a bit early tonight.” Mulder gives a theatrical moan, dropping his head against the back of the sofa, exposing the line of his throat. “I know,” she says, just barely restraining herself from opening her mouth, latching onto his neck, and never letting go. She leans against him, instead, tickling the skin just under his ear with the tip of her nose, feeling him shudder against her. She contemplates her schedule for the rest of the weekend.

She’s been busy, between the cafe, the added stress of baking the pies, and assisting in moving refugees. Her mother will understand if she’s “too tired” for Sunday Mass this weekend, won’t she? “But listen,” she says, before she can talk herself out of it, “Maman told me one of her farm hands is taking care of the milking for her this Sunday, and I’m not planning on going to Mass, so tomorrow night, I was thinking you could stay a bit later than normal.”

For a moment, Mulder says nothing; he only looks at her. It’s just enough time for doubt to begin to creep in: has she misread him? Is he offended by her being this forward? It certainly wouldn’t be the first time a man has been put off by her forthright advances.

“How late?” he asks, and she chances meeting his eyes. One look at the wild hopefulness she finds there, and all of her doubts are banished. She grins coyly at him.

“As late as you’d like,” she says, delighting in the bobbing of his adams apple as he swallows hard. She’s not sure if she leans in first or he does- all she knows is, when they kiss this time, he pulls her up against him until they’re closer than they’ve ever been before. She’s very nearly sitting in his lap, and she starts to protest when his lips leave hers, but the words die in her throat as he begins to kiss his way down her neck, then back up again, until his lips latch onto the same patch of skin behind her ear that she’d just been nosing at on him. She gasps sharply as warmth and wetness floods down between her legs- how does he know?- and she can’t take it, she knows she can’t have him tonight, there’s just not time to do it properly, but if she doesn’t have his hands on her, she’s going to die. She takes his right hand from its place at the small of her back and draws it upwards, placing it decisively on her breast.

She feels him begin to pull away, but she thinks it’s a safe bet that it’s just a reflex, probably more from shock than from not wanting to touch her, and so she holds his hand in place, returning her fingers to his hair only when she’s sure he’s going to stay put. And he does, massaging her breast gently, tentatively at first, then more confidently as she kisses him again. She gasps as his clever fingers find her hardening nipple, pinching it just right, and he drops his head to her shoulder with a low moan.

“Scully,” he says, his lips in the hollow of her throat, “you’re not going to make me leave just yet, are you?” She chuckles, playing with his hair.

“I wouldn’t be that cruel,” she reassures him. “You can stay a little longer, I suppose.” Her casual attitude is a front- if he tries to remove his hand from her breast right now, she will lose her mind. She wants more, wants him so badly she can feel it like an electrical current in her entire body, a low hum that starts in her center and radiates outward to every extremity.

It takes every ounce of self-control that she possesses to gently disengage herself from his arms as the clock strikes eleven. She’s already cutting it far too close; the injured soldier could be delivered to her back doorstep at any moment. Still, it’s with great regret that she walks Mulder downstairs. At the front door, she kisses him soundly.

“Tomorrow night,” she promises him, “you can stay as late as you want. All night, if you think you can get yourself up and back to the encampment in time for your morning roll call.” He smiles tenderly down at her, reaching out to push a lock of her red hair behind her ear.

“I can’t wait to sleep with you in my arms,” he whispers, and that’s all it takes for her to melt. It’s not seeing her naked that’s chief on his mind, not making love, not the gratification he’ll feel when they’re finally joined. His thoughts have run somewhere far more intimate.

 _You need to send him away now,_ she reminds herself harshly. _You cannot change your mind and take him back upstairs._

“That sounds like the most wonderful thing imaginable,” she tells him, and she’s not lying. She kisses him once more; then, gently, she pushes him out the door, locking it as he begins to walk backwards down the street, holding her gaze through the window, until he turns the corner and is gone.

It’s not a moment too soon. She hasn’t even gotten back to the kitchen yet when there’s an insistent knocking at the back door. She runs to open it, revealing Richard Langly standing in the alleyway with a man leaning on his shoulder. The man is relatively short, wearing pants and a suit coat that are much too large for him. There’s a nasty gash on his forehead, and his right arm is in a makeshift sling.

“This is John Nelson,” says Langly, leading the man past her and into the kitchen. “He’s been on the move for three days now. He could probably do with some food, once you’ve fixed him up.” The two men start up the stairs, and Scully follows.

“I’ve got sandwiches in my flat,” she says. “When is he being picked up?” She follows them into the parlor as Langly is easing the unfortunate Mr. Nelson onto the sofa.

“Around two in the morning,” says Langly. “Not by us; we’ve got others we need to move tonight. I’ll be meeting the boys as soon as I leave here.”

With Langly’s help in holding the man down, Scully manages to set and splint his broken arm and stitch up his forehead. She gives him a cheese sandwich and a glass of wine, leftover from the bottle Mulder had brought, and then goes downstairs to let Langly out. When she returns, Nelson is trying to sit up. She drops down onto the stool by his head and pushes him back.

“You need to rest,” she tells him gently. “You’ll likely have a good distance to walk tonight when you leave here. Take advantage of the comfortable seat while you can, all right?” The exhausted airman nods and closes his eyes.

“You speak English,” he says, and Scully smiles. Her fluency never ceases to surprise the men she treats.

“I’m half-American,” she explains. The man looks interested.

“American, eh?” She nods. “I knew some Yanks at the airfield I flew out of. Good chaps. We’ll need 'em when it comes time to invade.”

“Will that be soon, do you think?” Scully asks.

“Must be,” says Nelson. “They don’t tell us nothing, but they’ve got to do it soon, haven’t they? It’s why they’ve got us running these raids, bombing Gerry’s defenses so’s the boys on the ground have an easier time of it.” Scully opens her mouth to reply… but suddenly, Nelson catches sight of something over her shoulder and sits up so fast, the plate that had held his sandwich falls to the floor. Scully turns to see what could have him so panicked, and her eyes fall on….

Mulder.

He’s standing in the archway between the kitchen and the parlor, one of her meat cleavers from downstairs dangling from his hand, a look of total horror and despair on his face.

“Mulder!” she cries, leaping up. “What are you doing back here?” Behind her, she can hear Nelson trying to stand, and though she knows he’s likely to injure himself further this way, she can’t look away from Mulder.

“I forgot my hat,” he says, in English. If he finds her use of the language confusing, he doesn’t mention it. “I used my key to let myself back in to get it because I didn’t want to wake you. I heard a noise… I wanted to make sure you were all right….” Oh God, his key. Why hadn’t she remembered that she’d given it to him? She should have taken it back, claimed that her mother had needed it again.

“What’s a German officer doing with a key to your flat?” demands Nelson from behind her. “What are you trying to pull? Are you turning me in?” Scully finally tears her gaze from Mulder and turns back to him.

“No, Mr. Nelson, of course not,” she reassures the frightened airman. “This man is no threat to you. Now will you please sit still before you tear your stitches?” She turns back to Mulder, trying to think of something, some reason, any reason why an injured British soldier would be in her apartment in the middle of the night.

But Mulder is not a stupid man. He doesn’t need any help to put the pieces together all by himself.

“You’re with the Resistance,” he says finally. Scully thinks, for a moment about lying… but it’s no use.

“Mr. Nelson,” she says to the injured airman, “I want you to rest here for a bit. Close your eyes and try to sleep, all right? I need to speak with my friend for a moment.” She leads Mulder by the arm through the apartment and into her bedroom, closing the door behind them.

She has no idea what to say to him. Will he turn her in? She’d like to think he would never do that, but she can’t be certain. One way or another, it’s very likely that this will be the last time he’s in her apartment, maybe even in her cafe… possibly even in her presence. Even if he doesn’t turn her in, he can’t afford to be associated with her.

“What group are you with?” he asks her at last. “The Gaullists? The SFIO? French Forces of the Interior?” She’s impressed he knows the different factions, but she realizes that she shouldn’t be. Mulder pays attention to the details; it’s likely he would have figured all this out about her anyway, given enough time.

Temporary, the voice in her head says sadly.

“I’m not with any particular group,” she says. “I help whichever group comes to me… I assist them in moving people, arranging their transportation and their hiding places. The man out there is a pilot who was sent to me by Dutch-Paris.”

“How have I not noticed you’ve been hiding people in your apartment until now?” asks Mulder. “I’m here every night. Late.”

“They only actually come to my apartment if they need medical attention,” explains Scully. “Most of the time I only make the arrangements and provide information.”

“The pies,” he says. “That’s how you communicate, isn’t it?” She nods.

“The flavor of the pie tells me who needs to be moved- if it’s Jews, Allied soldiers, or political refugees. The number of people the pie is for tells me how many people are in the group, and the date the order is due is when they need to be moved by. I make the arrangements and put their instructions inside the box with the pie when the person helping them picks it up.” Mulder nods, digesting this… then, without warning, his face is seized by an anguished look of terror.

“Scully,” he says quietly, “what will you do if they catch you?” She doesn’t answer. There’s nothing to say. Involvement with the Resistance, even for someone unaffiliated with any particular group, like her, carries the stiffest of penalties. It’s likely he’s seen the punishment carried out before, more than once. “You can’t do this, Scully,” he insists. “It’s too dangerous. If they find out… if they catch you… I can’t protect you then, Scully, I’d never be able to get to you in time. You’ll be put to death before I even know you’ve been arrested.”

In spite of her horror at the situation, his words touch her more than he could possibly know. She feels guilty for her thoughts of a moment ago, her worry that he would turn her in. His concerns aren’t for himself, for his unit, for the cause he’s being forced to fight.

All he cares about is her.

“I know that, Mulder,” she assures him. “I’m not asking you to protect me.”

“But why, Scully?” he asks. “Why are you risking this much?”

“I have to. I have no choice.”

“Yes, you do,” he insists. “You can survive this. If you keep your head down, if you keep yourself safe-”

“At what cost, Mulder?” she asks. “How many people can I help to save who would die if I just kept my head down? People keeping their heads down, minding their own business and keeping themselves safe, that’s how men like Hitler win, Mulder. Evil things can only happen if good men- and women- stand by and allow them to happen, and I refuse to do that.”

“But why you, Scully?” he asks. “Why do you have to be the one to do it?”

“Because I’m here, and because I can,” she says. “I can’t stand by and allow innocent people to suffer when I have the power to help them, Mulder. I don’t know how to do that. It’s just not who I am.” In her mind’s eye, she sees him charging the soldier who had harassed her, sees his shame at the Marchand family’s fear of him. She looks at him pointedly. “And I don’t think it’s who you are, either.” He looks down, refusing to meet her gaze. She sighs. “One way or another, Mulder, I need you to go back to the encampment. The man out there has a great distance to travel tonight. He’s injured, he’s hungry, and he needs to rest as much as he can.” Mulder nods mutely, still looking at the floor. Scully sighs. “Come on,” she says.

In the parlor, Mr. Nelson tries to sit up again as they approach, and she puts out a hand, stopping him.

“Please, Mr. Nelson, just relax,” she begs him. “You’re not in any danger.” She looks up at Mulder. “Right?” Mulder nods.

“I promise, I have no interest in seeing you caught,” he tells the airman, in English. “I mean you no harm.” Nelson doesn’t look completely reassured, but he does stop trying to stand up.

“I’ll be back in a moment,” Scully tells him, then takes Mulder’s arm and leads him gently downstairs.

At the front door of the cafe, she stops. She reaches for his hand, the same hand he’d touched her with only an hour before, and she’s heartened somewhat when he doesn’t pull away.

“If I don’t see you here tomorrow, Mulder,” she whispers, just barely managing to hold back tears, “I’ll understand. But…” She gives his hand a soft squeeze and pulls it to her mouth, brushing his knuckles with her lips before letting go. “I hope you’ll be here.” She knows they do not have time to talk about it now and so does he. He nods at her once and leaves, and as soon as the door is shut and locked behind him she sinks down against it, giving in to tears at last.

She’s known this would be temporary. She’s known, the entire time, that it can’t last. She’s reminded herself constantly that it would have to end one day, that eventually it would be over and she’d be alone again. But now, facing the possibility of all of that coming true, she realizes just how little she’s taken it all to heart.

No matter how many times she’s reminded herself that it can’t last, she doesn’t care. She wants to be Fox Mulder’s forever.


	5. Chapter 5

ORADOUR-SUR-GLANE, HAUTE-VIENNE, FRANCE  
EARLY JANUARY 1944

At shortly after two o'clock in the morning, a man Scully has met before, on occasion, but whose name she doesn’t know, arrives at the back door to collect Mr. Nelson. The British airman is still exhausted, but he’s had a full meal, at least, and Scully has provided him with more food to be eaten during the journey. She and the stranger exchange no words other than what is required for the hand-off, and Scully breathes an enormous sigh of relief as she closes and locks the door behind them.

I can still manage a few hours of sleep if I go to bed now, she thinks to herself, rolling her head in a slow circle, massaging the kink that’s formed at the back of her neck. She begins to drag herself slowly upstairs… but before she’s even gone halfway, there’s a loud, frantic pounding on the kitchen door.

Scully startles and just barely manages to catch herself before she falls down the stairs. She turns and runs back down to the kitchen, hoping whoever it is won’t knock again, hoping that her neighbors haven’t already woken up. As she nears the door, she hears a sound that’s familiar, but very out of place: the weeping of a child. Her stomach contracts in fear.

Scully throws open the back door to reveal Walther Skinner, hat-less and coat-less, cradling little Christine Marchand in his arms. The child is shivering, in spite of being wrapped in Skinner’s overcoat, and she’s struggling to free herself from his hold. Skinner rushes inside and releases Christine, who immediately tears across the room and crouches under the counter, making herself as small as possible, looking out over the room with eyes like a hunted animal.

“What happened?” Scully asks, shutting and locking the door behind them. Skinner collapses against the wall, breathing hard. He’s clearly been running for a long time.

“I don’t know,” he says, bending over, his hands on his knees. “Part of a patrol arrived back at the camp an hour ago with the parents, and a few minutes later the rest of the patrol showed up with the older sister. I snuck out of camp as quickly as I could and ran out to your mother’s farm.” He stands up straight and jerks his chin in Christine’s direction. “Found her buried in the hayloft. She’d run back there to hide when her family got caught. Your mother didn’t even know they’d left the farm.”

“Someone must have gotten word to them that it was time to move,” murmurs Scully, approaching Christine cautiously, slowly. She crouches down in front of the girl’s hiding place and reaches out a hand. Christine takes it, tentatively, and allows Scully to draw her out from under the counter and into her lap. She croons to her softly, rocking her back and forth as Christine slides her thumb into her mouth and begins sucking, something Scully has never seen her do before.

“We need to move her quickly,” says Skinner. “Who can you contact to come and pick her up?”

“At this hour?” Scully shakes her head. “No one. The only thing I can think of to do is for you to take her to the church. The priest can send word in the morning for someone in his network.” She looks up at Skinner. “Can you get her there?”

“She’s afraid of me,” says Skinner, doubtfully. “Afraid of the uniform. When I took her out of the hayloft she put up as much of a fuss as she could manage.” Scully looks down into the little girl’s face, smoothing her long, dark hair back from her face.

“Christine,” she says, her voice soothing, “you know who I am, right?” Christine nods. “And you know I would never hurt you, or let anyone else hurt you, right?” She nods again. Scully motions to Skinner to crouch down, which he does, and immediately, Christine hides her face in Scully’s shoulder. “This is my friend, Walther,” Scully says. “I know his uniform is scary, but he’s one of the good guys, okay? He helps me find places to hide for people just like you and his family. He has to wear that uniform so that the other soldiers don’t know he’s on our side.” Christine risks a glance at Skinner, who smiles encouragingly at her. “I know it’s scary, Christine, but I need you to go with Walther tonight. He’s going to take you somewhere safe.”

“Will Maman and Papa be there?” asks Christine, speaking for the first time. “And Helene?” Scully glances at Skinner, who looks down rather than face the little girl’s frightened, hopeful eyes. Scully knows full well that if the Marchands have already been brought back to the encampment, there is nothing Skinner can do for them. If they’re sent somewhere else, it might be possible to free them during the journey, but it’s far more likely they’ll be dealt with here. But Scully cannot bring herself to crush the poor child any further.

“We hope so,” she says. “Walther is going to take you to the church. The priest there is another one of my friends, and he’s going to find people to take you to a new safe place, away from here.”

“Are you coming to the church with us?” asks Christine, and Scully shakes her head, giving her a comforting squeeze.

“I can’t be out after curfew,” she explains. “But you, you’re small enough that Walther can hide you in his coat. He couldn’t do that with me, could he?”

“Well, maybe I could throw her over one shoulder and tuck you in my other arm, and then put my coat on over all three of us,” suggests Skinner. “What do you think about that?” The idea coaxes the smallest of smiles out of Christine, and Scully relaxes a bit.

“So do you think you can go with Walther for me, Christine?” Scully asks. The little girl looks back and forth between the two adults’ faces, and Scully holds her breath. She has a minuscule amount of chloral upstairs, held in reserve in case she ever has to treat any serious injuries… it’s enough to knock the child out for the trip to the church, but she’d rather not use it if she doesn’t have to.

To her great relief, Christine nods. Skinner lifts the child against his body and Scully helps him to wrap his overcoat around them, buttoning it as much as possible. If he keeps to the side streets and stays alert, he should be fine. The church isn’t far away. Scully kisses Christine once on top of her head.

“You are being so brave,” she tells her. “Your mother and father would- will- be so proud of you.” That earns her a real smile, and it’s the image she holds in her heart of the little girl, likely to become an orphan by sunrise, as Skinner rushes her out into the cold January night.

He returns, just before dawn, alone, and bearing the news that Albert, Sophie, and Helene Marchand will be put to death by firing squad in an hour.

Scully retreats to her bedroom, alone, and cries.

——————

Scully has just taken the day’s bread out of the oven when the knock comes at the cafe’s front door. Through the window, she can see Walther Skinner… and Mulder is standing next to him, looking decidedly unwell. She rushes to open the door.

“It’s over?” she asks Skinner, and he nods, his eyes closed tightly. Her stomach clenches, and her eyes well up. She knows that Skinner could not possibly have stopped it, not without revealing himself, but still, she’d hoped, naively, for some sort of last-minute miracle. She extends her hand to Mulder, leading him through the door. “Come on, Mulder,” she says. “Let’s go upstairs.” He says nothing, only nods, and follows her silently through the kitchen and upstairs to the apartment. She sits with him on the sofa, caressing his hand gently, waiting for him to speak.

“I thought you said he was your mother’s hired hand,” Mulder says finally.

“He was,” says Scully. “We obtained forged identity papers for the entire family and arranged for them to live on the farm. We don’t know how their true identity was discovered.”

“Where’s the youngest daughter? Christine?” The knot in Scully’s stomach loosens slightly at the thought of the little girl. The priest had come to her, not long after sunrise, to say that Christine was safely on her way, being shepherded through the countryside in the direction of Switzerland.

“We were able to hide her,” says Skinner. “We had very little warning, but we managed that much. She’s on her way to safety now.” Mulder frowns as he mulls over his commander’s words.

“We, Sir?” Skinner nods. Scully watches his face as he puts the pieces together, one by one, just as he had last night, in this very room. It feels like forever ago, instead of only a scant few hours. “You’re with them.”

“I am,” Skinner confirms with a nod.

“Why didn’t you stop it today, then?” Mulder asks.

“By that point, Mulder, there was nothing I could do, not without giving myself away. And there are people still in hiding who are counting on me to help them. All I can do is try to keep things from getting as far as they did this morning… but once it gets to that point, it’s out of my hands.” Mulder looks poised to interrupt, but Skinner stops him. “And out of yours, too. If you and I tried to intervene today, they would have shot us, and then shot that family anyway.”

“You don’t know that,” says Mulder weakly.

“I do,” says Skinner, “because I’ve seen it happen before. It doesn’t sound gallant or honorable, I know, but that’s how it is. If you want to help, there are ways, but an ill-conceived one-man suicide charge is not one of them.” He stands. “I need to get back. Mulder, you’re sick and excused from duties today, understand?” Scully stands, as well, touching Mulder gently on the shoulder to keep him in his seat.

“I’ll see you out,” she says. “I’ll be right back, all right?” Mulder nods, and with a tender touch to his cheek, she follows Skinner out of the room, down the stairs, and through the kitchen.

“He’s seen plenty of executions before,” Skinner murmurs to her as they cross the dining room. “I’ve never seen him this shaken up, not once.”

“It could be because he knew them before,” Scully suggests. “It was only that one evening… but still, it might have been enough.” She sighs. “Or maybe it’s just too much, combined with his having found out the truth about me.” Skinner raises his eyebrows. “He came back to the cafe last night after forgetting his hat,” she explains. “While I was tending to someone.”

“How did he take it?” asks Skinner. “Obviously he didn’t rush to turn you in.”

“He would never,” says Scully firmly. “And we never got the chance to talk about it. I needed him to leave so that my patient could rest, and now….” She sighs.

“Go up and talk to him now,” Skinner urges. “I meant it when I said that there are ways for him to help.” Scully frowns.

“You think he’ll be receptive?”

“I do,” says Skinner firmly. “He doesn’t want to be here. He never has. He hates Hitler and everything he stands for… but until now, he’s been passive about it. The night he defended you is the most action I’ve seen from him since the occupation began.” He looks pointedly at Scully. “He would do anything for you, Dana. And I think you should let him.” He puts a hand on her shoulder. “He wants to help, I can tell… and if you ask him, I think he will. It will be good for him.” He straightens up, settling his hat on his head. “Good for all of us.” He turns to the cafe door and opens it. “Give it a try. One way or another, I don’t want to see him back in camp at all today. In the state he’s in, he’s liable to break more noses, and I don’t want to deal with that sort of a headache.”

Mulder is still sitting on the sofa when Scully returns, his head hanging dejectedly. He looks up as Scully approaches, and she takes his hand, pulling him to his feet. She leads him to her bedroom, and he follows without hesitation.

“I want you to lie down for a bit,” she says, taking him to her bed and settling him to lie down in the middle. Without worrying he’ll think her forward- he’s too far gone for that- she climbs up next to him, just above him, so that she can hold his head comfortingly to her chest. He clings to her as though she’s the only safe thing in his world, and for awhile, she simply lets him lie there, stroking his hair, occasionally kissing the top of his head. She thinks back to what Skinner had said downstairs, before leaving.

“Mulder,” she says at last, “I know you’ve seen more than a few executions. Skinner says you’ve always been stoic before. What happened this time?” He’s silent, and she presses on. “Is it because you’d met them before? Had dinner with them?” Still, nothing. “Mulder?”

“It was the girl,” he says finally, his voice hoarse and broken. “Helene. She saw me. She-” He stops, shudders, clings to her more securely. “She recognized me. She was looking at me like she was begging me to save her… and I didn’t. I just stood there. And… she looked so much like Samantha, Scully. Her eyes… it was like I was looking at Samantha, the moment before-” Here, he stops. She knows he’s scared to talk about this, she can sense that easily, but she can also sense that he needs to talk about it. It’s there, behind his eyes, every time he talks about his sister, and it’s eating him alive.

“Mulder,” says Scully gently, “how did your sister die?”

For a moment, he’s silent, and she thinks that maybe he won’t be able to bring himself to do it, to tell her this secret story that is clearly weighing so heavily on his heart… but finally, he begins to speak.

“My sister and I had gone for a walk to the park near our house,” he begins, quietly. “We were meeting a friend of mine- also Samantha’s boyfriend- a young man named Rolf, someone I’d met at school. I’d introduced him to Samantha because they were so alike.”

“How so?” asks Scully.

“Kind,” Mulder says. “Empathetic. Strongly opposed to Hitler and everything he wanted for the country. Samantha used to shock our parents, and anyone else who happened to be sharing our dinner table, with the things she would say about him… which I encouraged, shamelessly. Not because I had any political leanings myself, you understand; but simply because I liked seeing my parents realizing that they couldn’t control their daughter, no matter how much they might want to. Samantha was never going to be the perfect lady my mother wanted her to be, and I loved watching her stand up to them.

"It was February, 1934, and it had snowed all night, and we walked to the park to meet Rolf, not long before lunch. I don’t even remember most of what we talked about- I just remember that the conversation had just shifted to me going to Oxford when it happened. Samantha, she didn’t like the idea of me going to school so far from home, and she was just in the middle of telling me her reasons why it was a bad idea, when there was a sudden shot, and Rolf fell to the ground.” He stops, for a moment, and Scully strokes his head, waiting patiently for him to continue. “I wasn’t looking at her when it happened, I was looking around the park… trying to see where the noise had come from… I didn’t understand what it was at first… and then… there was another shot.” He shudders to a halt, clinging to her so hard it almost hurts, pressing his face into her chest. His tears are soaking through her blouse and she wonders if he even knows he’s crying.

“It’s okay, Mulder,” she whispers, cradling his head against her. “You can tell me. I’m listening.”

“I looked back at her,” he says, “and she was already falling. I still didn’t understand… not until I saw all the blood… and the way she was looking right at me….” He chokes out a sob, shaking from head to foot. “It was the same way that the Marchand girl looked at me today… begging me to do something… and I didn’t. I couldn’t.”

“Mulder, there was nothing you could have done,” says Scully. “You couldn’t have saved Helene today, and you had no way of helping your sister that morning in the park.”

“Oh, there were ways for me to help,” says Mulder darkly. “My parents’ attitude made that clear enough to me, once we learned the truth of what had happened. Rolf, it turned out, had been writing articles for a subversive newspaper, trying to discredit Hitler… and Samantha had been delivering the papers all over town.” He takes a deep, ragged breath. “It was a political hit. And it never would have happened if I hadn’t encouraged her, if I hadn’t introduced them.”

“Your parents… said this to you?” she asks carefully.

“They didn’t have to,” he says. “They couldn’t have said it, because telling me it was my fault would have meant talking about the entire business in the first place, and they refused to do that. But the way they looked at me… the way they never spoke to me… it was enough to know. It was all my fault, and they knew it.”

Scully has never in her life felt such a visceral hatred for two people she has never met. Part of her is glad that she’s not likely to ever meet Mulder’s parents… and part of her wishes she could meet them, simply to take them both to task for utterly failing their son- failing both of their children, when it comes down to it. But now, with Mulder lying broken in her arms, is not the time for such thoughts. Now is the time to begin to try and put right the damage that they have caused in him.

“Mulder,” she whispers, “it wasn’t your fault. Not today, and not ten years ago. The fault lies with the men who pulled the trigger, with the men who ordered them to do it, with the men who put the idea in their heads.”

“I encouraged her, Scully,” he argues. “I pushed her to say what she thought. I should have known it was dangerous.”

“That’s what big brothers do, Mulder,” she says. “They push their sister’s buttons. They try to get them in trouble with their parents. Believe me, I have an older brother, I know. You never meant to put her in any danger. You introduced her to your friend out of kindness, because you thought they would like each other.” She tries to communicate in her gaze, to make him understand. This is important. “Nothing you did was meant to hurt your sister. Nothing you did should have hurt her, if the men in charge of your country were anything resembling reasonable. It wasn’t your fault, Mulder. You couldn’t have known.” She slides down on the bed until their faces are at the same level and kisses him, then holds him close to her. She realizes, suddenly, that he’s lying exactly where she’d hoped to have him, this evening, under very different circumstances, and she can’t hold back a rueful laugh. He looks inquiringly at her.

“You know, I’ve been dreaming of having you in my bed for weeks,” she explains. “Just… not quite like this.” He smiles for the first time since last night.

“For weeks, huh?” he says. “I’m that irresistible?”

“You have no idea,” she says, and she means it. She allows herself just one more kiss before she reluctantly sits up. “I’m going to need to go downstairs and open the cafe soon. I want you to stay up here and rest, all right?”

“I’ll be fine,” he protests, but she shakes her head.

“You didn’t sleep at all last night, I can tell. You look completely exhausted. Stay up here, sleep if you can, and just try and relax if you can’t.” He doesn’t require any further convincing to settle back down on her bed. In the doorway, Scully stops, thinking back on her earlier conversation with Skinner. “And… Mulder?”

“Yes, Scully?”

“I want you to think about what Skinner told you, all right?”

“Which part?”

“That if you want to help, there are ways. There are things you could do, Mulder, that could help stop what happened this morning from happening again. I want you to think about it and decide if that’s something you’re interested in.”

She watches him weighing her words in his mind as he lies flat on his back, staring up at her ceiling. He’s quiet for a long time, long enough that she begins to worry that she and Skinner have read him wrong, that maybe he’s not open to helping, that maybe his fear of risking himself is greater than his abhorrence for what he’s witnessed thus far. But finally, he pushes himself up to sit at the edge of the bed, looking her directly in the eyes. His voice is shaky, but his words are clear.

“Tell me what to do.”

Scully feels an incredible sense of relief, an immense feeling of pride in him. She’d been right about him, after all. Smiling, she crosses back to him, taking his hands in hers.

“Right now,” she says gently, “all you need to do is rest. Come down to the cafe later, in the afternoon, and have something to eat. And this evening, after I’ve closed up, we’ll talk.”

—————–

It’s a long day, and Scully spends most of the morning worrying about her mother. She knows that the Marchands will have been questioned prior to being put to death, and if they’ve said anything about who’s been helping them….

Skinner appears just before noon to put an end to her fears. “The parents said nothing,” he whispers to her as she bends low as though taking his order. “And the girl was too much in shock to talk.” Scully nods, feeling some of the tension in her body release. Her mother may still be questioned, it’s true, but the Marchand family’s identity papers were perfect forgeries, indistinguishable from the real thing, and there’s no possible way she could have been expected to know the difference.

Mulder appears in the dining room towards the end of the lunch rush, looking slightly better than he had when she’d left him upstairs. He eats several sandwiches, one after the other, and then gets up and carries his plate into the kitchen without speaking. When Scully follows, she finds him already at the sink, making a start on the pile of dirty dishes she hasn’t yet gotten around to.

“You know you don’t have to do that, Mulder,” she tells him.

“I want to,” he says. “I need to keep myself busy, Scully. I couldn’t sit alone upstairs anymore… and I can’t sit out there with some of the same soldiers who watched this morning and laughed.” She nods, understanding.

“I’m going to close up early tonight,” she says. “I haven’t slept at all, either, and you and I need to talk before you leave here.”

Scully anticipates some resistance when she announces at six o'clock that she’s shutting down for the night, but there’s none. The dinner crowd is smaller than usual, the atmosphere subdued, most of the men having opted either for solitude or for the comforts of the local tavern. The few still there at closing time leave with relatively little fuss, and Scully returns to Mulder in the kitchen.

“Let’s go upstairs,” she says, as he’s finishing drying the last of the day’s plates. He follows her up, sitting next to her on the sofa, and waits patiently for her to speak.

“I don’t know how much you’re willing to do,” she says, keeping her voice quiet. “So how about I tell you what needs doing, and you tell me what you want to help with. All right?”

“I’m willing to do whatever you need, Scully,” Mulder says earnestly, and she smiles.

“At least wait until you know what it is before making any promises,” she tells him. “The biggest thing I need are medicines.” He frowns.

“You want me to steal from the infirmary?”

“No, nothing quite that dangerous,” she assures him. “I need things from the local pharmacy, but right now, I’m showing up there just often enough to arouse the pharmacist’s suspicions. If you were to go there and make some of my purchases instead, he would have fewer questions- and if he does give you trouble, I think your uniform will be enough to intimidate him into submission.” She scrunches up her face. “He’s a little weasel of a man. Quick to report people, but not terribly brave.”

“I can do that,” Mulder agrees readily.

“And it would help if you were to carry messages to Hauptmann Skinner from time to time,” she continues. “You being his subordinate, there’s nothing suspicious about the other men seeing you talking to him. And you can go and find him in the encampment, which I can’t, not without calling attention to myself. Most of the time I see him often enough to communicate what I need to, but it would be especially good in emergencies, like last night, if you could help out.”

“I can do that, too,” says Mulder. “What else?”

“The last thing is probably the riskiest,” Scully cautions him, and he becomes much more serious. “We badly need German army uniforms, to disguise people we need to move after dark. Obviously you can’t just walk out of camp with a stack of uniforms, but if you were to bring them to me one piece at a time, whenever the opportunity arises, we could put them to good use.” Mulder’s face falls slightly.

“That’s it?” he asks. “I thought you were going to ask me to bomb train tracks and steal weapons.” Scully smiles.

“Others are already doing that,” she says. “You know that. You hear about it every day. And don’t think for one minute that what I’m asking of you isn’t every bit as dangerous, Mulder.” He looks skeptical. “Please, promise me you’ll keep that in mind.”

“I promise, Scully,” he says. “I just….” He shakes his head. “It isn’t quite what I expected. But sure, I can do all of that.” She smiles.

“I need you to do just two more things for me, Mulder,” she says.

“Just two?” She nods.

“First, I need you to kiss me,” she says, and he obliges enthusiastically before the words are fully out of her mouth, flooding her entire body with a sultry warmth that makes her second request harder to make… but she has to. She’s dead on her feet.

“What else, Scully?” he asks, and she smiles ruefully at him.

“I need you to go back to the encampment,” she says, “and let me sleep.” He gives a theatrical groan, falling dramatically against the back of the couch.

“You’re a cruel, cruel woman, Dana Scully,” he says.

“I know,” she says, sympathetically. “But I haven’t slept in almost two days, Mulder. I’m dead on my feet.” He sighs, but stands obediently. She follows him to the apartment door, but he stops her at the top of the stairs.

“I’ll let myself out, Scully,” he says. “I’ve still got my key. You go get in bed and sleep, all right?” He kisses her forehead. “I’ll see you in the morning.” He’s gone before she can protest- not that she’d have the energy to. She stumbles to her bedroom and falls onto her bed without getting undressed or turning down the covers, and is asleep in minutes.

———————–

When she comes down to the kitchen in the morning, she finds all the dishes have been washed, dried, and put away. The meats and cheeses for the day’s sandwiches are sliced and arranged on platters in the refrigerator, and every vegetable that can be chopped and left without wilting overnight has been prepared. On the counter, written in a strong hand, is a note:

_“Scully,  
Whatever you need, I am here, now and always.   
-M._


	6. Chapter 6

ORADOUR-SUR-GLANE, HAUTE-VIENNE, FRANCE  
JANUARY 1944

For nearly a year, at the beginning of her twenties, Dana Scully had lived in terror at the idea of becoming an orphan.

Her mother’s illness had come on suddenly- on Monday, she’d been hale and healthy, single-handedly managing both the Cafe Pequod and the farm, and by Friday, she’d been too weak to write to her daughter in Paris. Scully had received a letter from her mother’s neighbor, instead, summoning her home from medical school, and she’d come immediately to assess her condition. When it had become apparent that Maggie would require long-term care, she had sent letters to her brothers, who were living in America, and to her sister, who was living in Greece with a man she had met while traveling through Europe.

Bill had written that he couldn’t possibly leave his naval posting, because he could not honestly tell his commander that no one else was available to care for his mother. As to her suggestion that he send Charlie, newly graduated from high school and with no definite plans for his future, absolutely not. What would be the point in paying for Charlie to travel all the way to France when Dana was there already, primed and equipped with more than enough medical training to nurse her mother far better than Charlie ever could?

“The family has indulged your ridiculous idea of being a doctor long enough,” Bill had written, “but now, it’s time for you to shoulder your share of the responsibility and make the same sacrifices that the rest of us have made.” What, exactly, those sacrifices were, Bill had neglected to mention. She couldn’t say how taking their youngest brother and running off to America, leaving the running of the family business to their mother, qualifies as a sacrifice, but she’d known Bill well enough to know that writing back would be useless.

Melissa had not even bothered with a response.

So Scully, with less than a year left until the completion of her medical degree, had returned to Paris just long enough to gather her belongings and withdraw from school. She had hired two local men, one to manage the cafe and one as a dishwasher, allowing the manager to rent the upstairs flat, and she had moved into the farmhouse with her mother.

Maggie’s condition had been touch and go for awhile, and Scully had lived in daily fear of losing her, of being left essentially alone in the world. Her father had been gone for years, her siblings were so distant and unreliable, and for those first months Scully had floundered, trying to cope with overseeing the farm, the cafe, and her mother’s care. The man she’d hired to manage the cafe had, at first, refused to take her seriously, making decisions without her input until finally, she’d threatened to replace him.

When Maggie’s health had returned, Scully had briefly nurtured the hope of returning to school, of finishing her medical degree and finally becoming a doctor. With someone managing the cafe, and the farm employing enough hands that Maggie wouldn’t have to do any of the physical labor, it didn’t seem unreasonable that she might be able to leave long enough to complete the required classes. She could even come straight back to Oradour-sur-Glane when she’d finished and be a doctor there, so that she could help her mother, should she need it again.

But then had come the war.

When her dishwasher had been called up, Scully had been able to replace him relatively easily… but when the manager had left to go to war, a replacement hadn’t been quite so readily available. Scully had taken it over, telling herself that it was only temporary, that the war would end soon, the men would come home, and she could resume her studies.

Instead, the Occupation had begun… and once it had, Scully had no longer felt safe leaving her mother alone. She had moved into the flat above the cafe, resigning herself to learning as much of her remaining studies as she could from whatever books she could find. When the replacement dishwasher had suddenly disappeared from town with no indication he’d be returning, Scully hadn’t bothered hiring a new one. She’d received a letter from Melissa, saying that she was travelling further east, trying to find a place the war had not yet touched, and Scully hadn’t even been able to bring herself to be angry.

By then, she’d learned: the only person in the world that she can really and truly count on is herself.

And now… now, Mulder wants her to trust him. To let him in. To let him help. And she wants to, she really does.

She’s just not completely sure she remembers how.

————————

“Do you think there’s any way you can handle the morning milking yourself tomorrow, Maman? Scully asks Maggie, as they finish Saturday morning’s work at the farm. Maggie raises her eyebrows at her daughter.

"You have somewhere you need to be?” Maggie asks, and for a moment, Scully worries her mother can see right through her.

“No,” she says, “I’m just exhausted, that’s all. I think I may just skip Mass and try and get a good night’s sleep, for once.” Maggie looks stern.

“I can have Paul do your share of the milking,” she says, referring to one of her farm hands, “but I don’t see why you need to miss Mass, as well.” Scully sighs.

“Maman, I’ve been up until nearly three in the morning for the past three nights running,” she says. “Between the work at the cafe, the work here, and the… other things I’m responsible for, I can’t remember the last morning I woke up feeling the slightest bit rested.” She’s not lying about any of this, at least, and Maggie’s face softens somewhat.

“You do far too much, Dana,” her mother admonishes her. “I thought that maybe now, with Fox helping you, maybe you would be able to stop spreading yourself quite so thin.” Scully thinks of Mulder, of the real reason she’s planning on skipping Mass.

Spreading myself, indeed, she thinks, and instantly goes red. Her mother looks concerned.

“Darling, you’re flushed,” Maggie says. She puts a hand on her daughter’s forehead. “Are you all right?”

“Fine, Maman,” Scully insists, brushing her mother’s hand aside. Her mother looks at her critically a moment longer, then shrugs and returns to her work.

“Perhaps a little extra sleep wouldn’t be the worst thing for you,” she admits. “I’ll tell the priest you weren’t feeling well.” Scully smiles, relieved. Her stomach twinges with the tiniest bit of guilt- both her mother and the priest would be heartbroken if they knew her true plans for this evening- but she quells it immediately.

She’s been alone for so long. Not lonely, of course. Never lonely… or so she’s told herself, repeatedly, during long nights in her empty flat, the abundance of unoccupied space in her too-large bed seeming to mock her. She’s always believed strongly that loneliness is a choice, that being content to be alone is a sign of strength, not weakness, and for a long time, she has been content… but now, a day that she doesn’t see Mulder, doesn’t speak to him, doesn’t flush with warmth from head to toe at the way he smiles at her, seems to be a day that’s somehow not complete.

It’s not a level of dependence she’s comfortable with… but whenever she tries to take a step back, Mulder takes another step forward, and she’s finding it harder and harder to keep him at arm’s length.

—————————

He’s begun heading to the kitchen during the last hour of every evening, getting a head start on the dishwashing, cleaning, and food preparation that used to keep her downstairs well after closing. She continually tells him that he doesn’t have to, that she can handle the work herself, that she can do it after he leaves, but he insists on continuing.

“My motives are purely selfish, Scully,” he reassures her. “The less you have to do before bed, the later I can stay, right?”

“I suppose that’s true,” she agrees cautiously.

“So really, I’m doing it for myself,” he says. “An hour washing dishes now means an extra hours with my hands on those-” he nods at her breasts- “later. Completely selfish.” She swats at him with a dishrag on her way back to the dining room, but she’s laughing.

She does that a lot more often, these days.

Tonight, as she’s finishing tending to the evening’s final customers, she feels as though her entire midriff is full of butterflies. It’s not nerves, exactly- she knows he’s not going to turn her down. No, this is purely excitement, anticipation for what she’s almost certain is going to be something amazing. Mulder sets her on fire with the simplest and most chaste of touches; she can’t wait to see what kind of sparks they throw off when he’s finally given free rein.

When the last customer has been shepherded out into the cold January night, Scully returns to the kitchen and hangs up her apron. For a moment, she contents herself with merely watching Mulder as he finishes drying the evening’s dishes, appreciating the firm, clean lines of his body, his long legs, his muscled forearms under the rolled-up sleeves of his shirt. As he finishes, he catches her looking, and she smiles coyly at him.

“What? he asks. "What’s that look for?”

“I spoke to my mother this morning,” she says. “I arranged for a farm hand to help her with Sunday morning’s chores again.” Mulder sets the last clean mug on its shelf and turns to her.

“Oh?”

“Mm-hmm.” She nods. “And I told her I’ve been tired… and not to expect me at mass tomorrow morning.” She can’t stop the playful smile that spreads over her face, and Mulder answers it readily.

“And what did you have planned?” he asks. She crosses the room, never breaking eye contact, and leans against his chest. She can feel his heartbeat thudding at a gallop where she’s touching him.

“Why don’t we go upstairs,” she whispers, “and maybe you’ll find out?” She draws away from him with difficulty, already craving his touch, and walks towards the stairs.

He takes her by the arm and pulls her back against him, suddenly and roughly. His lips cover hers, his tongue delving deeply into her mouth, and when he slides one strong arm under her and lifts her up, she can’t suppress a cry of surprise. At the sound she makes he looks as though he’s going to put her down, but she can’t have that, and so she encircles him tightly in her legs and kisses him again. Before she has time to think about it, she’s going positively feral on him, scratching at his scalp and grinding her hips against him, desperate for more contact. Already he’s hard and hot underneath her, and she wants to get at him so badly she doesn’t know how she’s going to wait for him to take off his clothes.

Suddenly he breaks away from her, and she whimpers in protest as he tries to still the rocking of her hips

“Scully,” he gasps, “if you don’t stop that, we’re never going to make it upstairs.” She doesn’t care. She kisses her way back along his chin towards his ear, then whispers into it, loving the way he shudders against her.

“Going upstairs was just a suggestion, Mulder,” she says. “You can feel free to ignore it, if you’d like.” As badly as she wants to resume seeking friction from his stiff member where it’s pressing against her, she waits to see what he’ll do.

For a moment, he’s perfectly still, and she can see him running over the options in his mind: the floor? The butcher’s block? The counter? Watching him, she feels her entire mouth go dry, and she licks her lips. That simply motion seems to set Mulder off, and with a groan, he strides across the kitchen and presses her up against the wall. There’s a dull thunk as her head smacks into the boards behind her, but if there’s any pain, she’s completely unaware of it. She moans into his mouth as he kisses her again, her hands beating his to his belt buckle, which she undoes at top speed. She makes quick work of his button fly and uses both her hands and feet to shove his pants to the kitchen floor. She yanks at the bottom of her skirt, rucking it up and out of the way, and as she does, she feels the hand not cupping her bottom snaking its way up and under her blouse. Oh, yes, she thinks, as he strokes her breast, just this side of rough, nothing gentle in his touch at all. She presses her chest against him with a sigh, and he rewards her with a sharp pinch of her nipple that sets off a flood of wetness between her legs.

Scully locates the slit in the front of Mulder’s boxer shorts and takes his cock firmly in her hand. He goes almost totally still as she draws him out- he’s scarcely breathing- and privately, she thrills at the sheer size of him. She can’t possibly wait another moment, and she can tell by the wild look in his eyes that neither can he, and so she spreads her legs wider, bracing her feet against him, and positions him, taking him by the hip and pulling him towards her until she’s positively, achingly full of every last inch of him. He presses his forehead to hers, overwhelmed, and as badly as she wants him to move, now, she allows him this moment.

When at last he begins the smooth liquid slide in and out of her, his rhythm is slow, languid, unhurried. It’s delicious, certainly… but right now, she’s already nearly halfway there, and a sense of urgency hums through her limbs like electricity. There will be time for sweetness and slow caresses later, but now, this first time, it’s not what she needs. And he must sense it, somehow, just by looking at her, because he speeds up. She whimpers gratefully into his neck, tasting his sweat, and clutches tightly at him. He’s still holding back, though, and so she urges him on.

“Harder,” she whispers. He draws back, looking into her face for reassurance that she means it, that she wants it, and she answers him with the tiniest of nods. He slides one hand between the back of her head and the wall, cushioning her, and sets up a bone-jarring, spine-rattling pace, slamming her against the wall again and again, the steady _thud-thud-thud_ of her back against the wood and the wet _slap-slap-slap_ of their bodies filling the entire kitchen. That’s all it takes to send her flying, climaxing so hard she nearly blacks out, crying out his name as the wave overtakes her. Dimly she’s aware that he’s coming as well, bellowing into her neck.

Standing is suddenly too much for him, and she feels her back sliding along the wall as they drop slowly to the tiled floor. She curls her body against him and concentrates on getting her breath back, not quite aware that he’s speaking… until she realizes that he’s apologizing.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “This wasn’t how I intended this to be.” She shakes her head against his neck, still too weak to lift it.

“Mulder, don’t you dare apologize,” she says firmly. “I don’t see how anything could possibly have been better than that. That was incredible.” She feels him smiling against the top of her head and she snuggles closer… until a sudden, loud knock at the kitchen door makes her jump out of her skin. She jerks away from him and stands on legs that are still incredibly unsteady, hastily straightening her blouse and her skirt. Underneath, she can feel his seed dripping down her leg, and even in the midst of her fright, of wondering who’s at her door at this hour, she suddenly realizes: they hadn’t used a condom. Shit.

“Are you expecting anyone?” Mulder asks, his voice low. Scully shakes her head. Mulder’s got his pants buckled, though his shirt is still untucked, and he’s retrieved his pistol from the kitchen counter where he’d left it earlier. But as he’s advancing on the door, a familiar shout comes from the other side.

“Scully,” yells Frohike, “open up, it’s us!” Scully motions to Mulder to lower the gun.

“It’s all right, they’re some of my contacts, they’re safe,” she assures him, crossing the kitchen. “I wasn’t expecting them tonight, though.” She opens the door, revealing not just Frohike, but Byers and Langly, as well. They troop into the kitchen, one after the other, and Scully closes and locks the door behind them. She turns back, ready to introduce him to Mulder… and finds that all three of them are gaping at him in total shock.

“Mulder?” Frohike’s voice is squeaky with surprise, and Scully whips her head around to look at him.

“You know each other?” she asks. “How?”

“Oxford,” says Mulder. “They were two years ahead of me. Frohike sort of adopted me as a long-lost little brother.” Scully tries to think back. She’d known they’d gone to Oxford, but now she tries to remember whether any of the odd trio have ever mentioned exactly what years they had attended school. She draws a blank. They haven’t exactly exchanged many personal details; it’s all in the nature of the operation. Scully doesn’t even know the names of some of the men who deliver refugees and supplies to her.

“We used to print a newspaper,” Langly tells her, “and Mulder helped us distribute it sometimes.”

“I don’t know if you could call it a newspaper,” Mulder intones. “It was a monthly five pages of nonsense refuting everything the actual school paper printed.”

“Hey, somebody had to call the Cherwell out for printing nonstop lies,” insists Frohike. Scully shakes her head slowly, a smile spreading over her face. Now that it’s clear that there’s no danger, the knot in her stomach has loosened, and her playful mood is returning.

“Mulder, you helped produce an underground newspaper?” she teases him, and he ducks his head.

“‘Produce’ is overstating things a bit,” says Mulder. “All I did was occasionally drop a stack of them in the common room when nobody was paying attention, in exchange for Frohike buying me drinks at the pub later that night.”

“Mulder is your new source in the German army?” asks Byers, and Scully nods.

“That’s right,” says Scully. Frohike beams and tries to clap Mulder on the shoulder, which he can’t quite reach, and settles for thumping him mid-back.

“Good man,” he says. “Always knew you were a troublemaker at heart. We taught you well.”

“I’m assuming you’re with Dutch-Paris, then?” asks Mulder.

“For the past two years,” confirms Frohike. “Trust the Dutch to do what the French can’t. No offense intended, of course,” he says as an aside to Scully. She sighs and shakes her head- it’s a long-standing joke between them, and she knows he’s not insulting her.

“As much as I hate to break up the reunion,” she says, “I need to know: what are you three doing here? Has something happened?” She desperately hopes not- aside from not wanting to spoil the mood of the evening, she’s in no fit state to tend to anyone just now.

“We’ve got a group hiding off of the road a few miles north of town,” says Byers. “We know it’s risky, breaking curfew, but we were careful, and we need to move fast. It’s cold and we need to get the little ones someplace warm. We came to find out if it’s safe to bring them to your mother’s for a few days, and we need you to help us arrange transportation for them.” Scully lets out a relieved breath. This, she can handle. She won’t even need to leave the kitchen.

“How many? And where are you taking them next?”

“A mother and three children. We only need to get them to Limoges,” says Langly. “Our contact there is making identification papers for them, and then we’re getting them on a train south. We had a truck arranged already, but they never showed up at the last meeting point.” Scully thinks for a moment. There’s no reason that she can think of why her mother shouldn’t be able to help out- none of her current employees are living on the farm, and as long as Maggie is made aware of the family’s presence before she leaves for mass, she’ll be able to hide them in the house or in one of the outbuildings. Sighing inwardly, she realizes she’ll need to go to church in the morning, to go to confession, to talk to the priest and make arrangements.

“Take them to my mother’s and put them in the barn,” she tells Frohike. “Wait until daylight to knock on my mother’s door. She’ll feed them and give them a room. I’ll make the arrangements first thing in the morning and send word to my mother as soon as everything is set up.” She turns to Mulder. “I’m sorry, Mulder, but it looks like I’m going to need to go to mass tomorrow morning after all.”

“Why would he care about that?” asks Langly, confused. Byers digs his elbow into Langly’s side. “What?” When no explanation is forthcoming, he frowns at Mulder and Scully… and then, suddenly, he seems to get it, and gives them both a decidedly lecherous grin. Scully decides that’s the signal to send them off.

“All right, time to go,” she states. She pushes Langly roughly back towards the door. Byers sighs, shaking his head.

“As you can see, he’s about as mature as he was the last time you saw him,” he says. “I’ve done what I can, but when you’re already working with damaged raw materials….” He shrugs, and Mulder laughs.

“I take it I’ll be seeing the three of you again?” he asks, and Frohike nods, grinning.

“Count on it,” he says. He bows to Scully. “Mademoiselle Scully, a pleasure, as always.” Scully responds only by pushing him out of the door; she’s had quite enough of Frohike’s charms for one evening. She closes the door, throws the bolt, and turns, leaning against it, eyes closed.

“Of course you know each other,” she says. “They told me they met at Oxford and it never even crossed my mind that they might have been there at the same time as you.” She shakes her head. “I didn’t mean to announce our relationship to them like that. I’m sorry.” Mulder looks anything but. His smile is warm and tender as he walks towards her, sliding his arms around her and pulling her close.

“Don’t be,” he reassures her. “You think I’m anything other than proud to call a woman like you my own?”

“Is that what I am?” she asks. “Your own?” In the past, the very idea would have rankled and raised her hackles… but somehow, when Mulder says it, all it does is make her melt.

“I’d like to think so,” he murmurs, touching his forehead gently to hers, “but ultimately, I think you get the final say.” And that’s exactly why I don’t mind when he says it, she thinks to herself. Because he would never assume it without my permission.

“You know what my answer is,” she says. “I’m yours. Absolutely and completely.” And as if to prove it she kisses him deeply, passionately, and then draws back. “And I think it’s time for you to take me upstairs now.”

———

She leads him to her bedroom, where they stretch out languidly on her bed, kissing softly, slowly, all sense of urgency gone, replaced by a soothing warmth. He removes her shirt and camisole almost reverently, kissing each new inch of skin as he discovers it, and when he bends his head to take her nipple in his mouth, she moans and gasps. Once he’s moved his attention to her skirt, divesting her of that, as well, she sits up.

“If I’m going to be naked, you are, too,” she says, and he’s more than agreeable to the idea. She rids him of his jacket, just as she had that first night she’d cared for him on her sofa, and he rips off his undershirt. Her eyes roam over the expanse of his muscled chest, and she likes the view, wants to see more of it. She’s got his belt undone in seconds flat.

“You’re awfully adept at that,” he remarks… and for a moment she’s scared, for the first time tonight. She’s never led him to believe that she’d been a virgin… but, then, he’d never asked. She meets his eyes, her stomach clenched, but he’s smiling.

“I was nervous you’d be upset that you weren’t my first,” she admits.

“Scully,” he says gently, “who you’ve been with and what you’ve done before we met, that’s your business. I don’t care. All I care about is that you’re here with me now.” As he gazes at her, cupping her cheek in his hand, she sees something shifting in the depths of his eyes. “Scully,” he says, “I love you.”

It’s too much. She can’t meet his eyes anymore. She’s not surprised, not really- she’s known that he’s smitten- but she hadn’t expected him to admit it. She grasps about for something to say, something to lighten the serious mood.

“My mother told me never to believe anything a man tells you with his clothes off,” she says, nodding at his bare chest.

“Hey, I’ve still got my pants on, haven’t I? So I’m at least half-dressed.” She chuckles, relieved he’s going along with her, instead of being offended that she didn’t immediately say it back.

“Does that mean it’s only half-true?” she asks.

“No, Scully,” he promises. “It’s completely true. I’m in love with you. I’ve never felt this way about anyone before in my life.”

“Neither have I,” she whispers. The words are out almost before she can stop them.

“Really?” She nods. She can’t quite bring herself to meet his eyes, to let him see the tears she’s struggling to hold back. This is the part she’s never been good at: the letting go, the letting in, the opening of her heart to another person.

Gentle fingers touch under her chin, bringing her head up to meet his gaze. In his eyes she finds nothing but naked adoration, understanding… and a tiny bit of fear. She realizes that he doesn’t know, isn’t sure how she feels, and she can’t leave him in suspense another moment.

“I love you too, Mulder,” she says. His eyes flood with tears and he gathers her to him, holding her close and rocking her back and forth.

When Scully finally sleeps, hours later, curled in Mulder’s arms under the warmth of the feather duvet, she feels, for the first time, as if the bed is no longer too large.


	7. Chapter 7

ORADOUR-SUR-GLANE, HAUTE-VIENNE, FRANCE  
FEBRUARY 1944

“Is there anything else that you need right now?”

Walther Skinner is leaning against the butcher’s block in the cafe kitchen, a rucksack resting at his feet, watching Scully work her way through all of the tasks that must be completed before she opens for business in an hour. He’d arrived at the back door first thing in the morning.

“I don’t think so,” Scully says, cutting cheese into thin slices for sandwiches. “Mulder’s been able to get me the medicines I need, for now. And my other contacts have been helpful, as well.” She sets the platter of cheese off to the side and checks the bread that’s baking in the oven, filling the entire kitchen with its intoxicating aroma. She turns back to Skinner and dusts her hands off on her apron. “I’m as well-supplied as I’ve ever been.” She thinks of the stash of condoms upstairs, secured for her by Byers, the only one she could have requested to procure them for her without incurring a great deal of innuendo and leering. She still can’t believe she’d let them slide and forgotten one, that first time. “Better supplied, really,” she amends, hoping she’s not blushing. Skinner nods.

“That’s good to hear,” he says. He bends to open his rucksack, and from within, he withdraws three bottles of very expensive wine, a bottle of brandy, and a bottle of cognac. “Can you use any of these? Serve them in the cafe?” Scully’s eyes widen as she examines the wine labels.

“I definitely could,” she says. “I could charge a premium for them, too.” She picks up the brandy. “The extra money could go to getting more chloral… stitching up lacerations and setting bones would be much easier if I didn’t need three people to hold each injured man down.” She looks up at Skinner. “Thank you, Walther. These will help tremendously.” Skinner shrugs off her gratitude.

“Think nothing of it,” he says… then shifts his feet, suddenly uncomfortable. “You should put it about that Mulder got them for you, in exchange for your… arrangement.” Scully frowns.

“Have the men at camp been asking questions?”

“There have been comments, here and there,” says Skinner. He shrugs, doesn’t meet her eyes. “They see the way he looks at you. We don’t want anyone thinking you’re in a position to influence him.”

“He’s not very good at hiding it,” Scully concedes, blushing. Even though she knows it’s not something she should be encouraging, she can’t stop the small smile that creeps onto her face; Mulder’s worshipful gaze has quickly become something of an addiction for her.

“Well, he’d better learn,” says Skinner gruffly. “I can only do so much trying to spread rumors if he’s disproving them every time his comrades see you together.”

“I’ll talk to him,” Scully sighs. She transfers the bottles of alcohol to the cupboard under the stairs. “These will help, I’m sure.” She takes down a bag of coffee and latches the cupboard, then brings the coffee to the counter and sets about measuring it out for the day’s first pot. “He’s not going to like it, though. I can promise you that. He’ll hate even the idea that he could be using me… that people could think that of him.”

“I know he will,” says Skinner. “But he needs to remember it’s also for your protection, not just for his. That ought to arouse his protective instincts.” Scully nods. “He’s been helpful, then? In getting you supplies?”

“Yes, he’s been wonderful,” Scully says. “And I think it’s good for him, what he’s doing.” She sets the coffee pot on the stove. “He seems more at peace. Happier.”

“I’m not entirely sure that’s just from helping out,” says Skinner, his eyes boring into her. “I think I’d be happy and at peace, were I in his situation right now.” Scully blushes deeply and looks down.

“Walther,” she murmurs, her voice soft. She doesn’t know how to respond when he says things like this. Saying that she’s sorry would be dishonest; she’s completely certain, now more than ever, that Mulder is the only man for her, and she can’t possibly regret being with him. Skinner, though, seems to understand. He waves his hand dismissively.

“You don’t need to be sorry,” he says, pulling the words right out of her mind. “You’re good for each other. Never be sorry for finding happiness, especially not at a time like this.”

“Why do you do it, Walther?” Scully asks him. He frowns.

“What do you mean?”

“My mother and I,” says Scully, “we do this because it’s our country that’s been taken over, because it’s my brothers who are at sea fighting the Germans. Mulder does it because of what the Nazis did to his sister, because this is the only way he knows to fight back. But what about you?” Skinner smiles wryly.

“Is it so hard to believe that I might be doing it simply because it’s the right thing to do, Dana?” he asks.

“Frankly? Yes, it is,” Scully says. “Otherwise, I think we’d have no trouble at all finding people to help.” Skinner looks at her a moment longer, then drops his gaze.

“My brother took ill when I was a child,” he says quietly. “We had no money to pay our usual doctor, and he refused to help. One of our neighbors, a Jew, was also a doctor… and he treated my brother for free. He saved his life.” Skinner crosses to the kitchen door, slinging his rucksack over his back as he goes. “After that, my father wouldn’t hear a word against the Jews. He didn’t live long enough to see Hitler come to power, thank God… but I never forgot that doctor and what he did for our family. My mother and I used our family’s book shop as a cover to aid refugees fleeing the country, and since I’ve been conscripted, I’ve done what little I can to keep on helping.”

“You do a lot more than you realize, Walther,” says Scully. Skinner shrugs.

“It’s still the right thing to do,” he says. “Not because a Jewish man once helped my family. Even if I’d never known a single Jew in my life, it would still be the right thing to do.” Scully nods as he opens the door. “Talk to Mulder,” he advises her. “Don’t let him get himself in trouble.” And with that, he’s gone.

————————

Scully spends much of the next Saturday evening avoiding Mulder’s gaze as she finishes with her final customers of the night. Skinner has not been exaggerating: Mulder’s feelings are written all over his face for the world to see.

“You need to stop looking at me like that when there are still customers in the cafe, Mulder,” she tells him firmly, as she finally closes and locks the door after the last customer has left. “Your face is practically shouting to the entire German army that we’re lovers.” He grins over at her from his usual table.

“Lovers?” He stands and crosses the dining room, standing behind her with his hands on her waist. “I like that. Lovers.” She suddenly feels his lips on her neck, and twists away quickly, giggling.

“Mulder! Not in front of the windows, someone could see!” She gathers up an armload of dishes and heads for the kitchen. Behind her, she hears Mulder doing the same.

“You think there’s anyone out there who doesn’t know something’s going on between us, Scully?” he asks, depositing the dirty dishes in the sink of soapy water. “You don’t want to know the kinds of things I get asked about you whenever I’m at the camp.” Scully decides not to point out that she doesn’t need him to tell her- she’s heard enough from the soldiers themselves, during the day. Safe in their assumption that she doesn’t speak enough German to understand them, they don’t hold back in their speculation of what they think that she and Mulder get up to in the evenings.

“They know you share my bed sometimes, yes,” she tells Mulder, “but they don’t know it’s anything more than the same thing half the men in your regiment get up to with any woman who’s willing.” She puts her own dishes in the sink and starts up the stairs- she’ll deal with them later.

“Or desperate,” comes Mulder’s voice from behind her as he follows her up the stairs. “Most of them are only doing it because the soldiers are offering them food and money. I don’t want them thinking that of you, Scully.” She heaves a sigh, turning to face him and putting her hands on his shoulders. She’s going to have to spell it out for him, clearly.

“Mulder,” she says, “we need them to think that of me. In fact, it’s exactly the sort of rumor I’ve asked Hauptmann Skinner to spread.” He looks every bit as horrified as she’d expected him to be.

“What?”

“I want them to think you’re paying for food and supplies for the cafe,” she explains. “That’s the sort of relationship people like your commander can understand you having with me. It gives you power over me, leaves me at your mercy.”

“I don’t want power over you, Scully,” Mulder says. “And doesn’t it bother you? To be seen like that?” She winds her arms around his neck and shakes her head.

“I don’t care what any of them think, Mulder,” she tells him firmly. “I have no respect for any of them and I’m not wasting a single second worrying about their opinions of me. Men like that, who can see to it that a woman and her family starve, and then look down on her for doing what she has to in order to keep them alive?” She leans her forehead against his- standing a step above him, she’s only a few inches shorter. “They can’t know the truth. At best, they’ll be suspicious and your friend Spender will never tell you anything his father says again. At worst, they could accuse you of treason. You know the truth, Mulder, and that’s all I care about.” Mulder looks mournful.

“I’ll do my best, Scully,” he concedes. “But I make no promises.” She knows him well enough by now to know that that’s the best she can hope for. Smiling in resignation, she takes him by the hand and leads him upstairs.

Hours later, they’re settled naked on Scully’s bed, their passions sated for the moment- though, in Mulder’s case, not completely. She’s trying to read to him as he lies with his head in her lap; he’s trying, repeatedly, to direct his attention elsewhere. After she’s thwarted his attempt to bury his face between her legs for what has to be the fourth time, he sighs and flops onto his back, looking up at her.

“Scully, can I ask you something?” She nods at him, waiting. “How many….” He trails off, frowning, and suddenly Scully knows exactly what he’s going to ask. Her gut clenches. “How did you learn-”

“You want to know how many men I’ve been with before you,” she says, cutting him off. She’s not sure this is a conversation she wants to have. “I thought you said it didn’t matter to you?”

“It doesn’t,” he reassures her. “I’m just… I’m just curious, that’s all.” For a moment, she doesn’t speak. She’d like to think he won’t care about her past, what she’s done before they’d met, but she can’t help but think back to her time in Paris, to Sebastien, to the things he had said.

“Men don’t like a woman who’s too forward, Dana,” he’d told her, repeatedly, when she had tried to be vocal about what she’d thought would please her. “No man wants to be directed, to be told what to do in the bedroom. You need to learn to trust that I know what I’m doing.”

As though sensing her insecurity, Mulder sits up and embraces her warmly. “Let’s face it, Scully,” he tells her, smiling, “you know your way around my body better than I do. I was just wondering if that’s the sort of thing they teach in medical school these days.” She feels the tension abate and she sinks against him, chuckling.

“I suppose you could say I did learn it at medical school, after a fashion,” she says. “To answer your question… I was with one man before you.” Mulder looks skeptical, and for a moment she feels guilty about the lie. She wants to trust him not to judge her, to not be disappointed in her, but she’s never quite been able to shake her sense of shame over the two men she’d been with after leaving medical school. Not for having slept with them, not really… but for having used them for comfort when she’d felt nothing for them. Sebastien, at least, had been a long-term relationship. “It was for over a year though,” she tells Mulder. “He was one of my instructors.”

“A year?” She nods. “Who ended it?”

“I did,” she says. “He wanted us to get married… and he insisted that if we did, I would have to give up school, give up on becoming a doctor. He said it was all right for unmarried women to pursue a career, but that as his wife, my place would be in the home.” Mulder laughs, shaking his head. “I think you can imagine how well that idea went over with me.”

“No wonder you ended it.” He nuzzles into her hair, momentarily quiet. “Did you love him, Scully?” She leans her face into his neck, thinking.

“I thought I did at the time,” she says at last, and it’s the truth- Sebastien had seemed, then, to be everything she should want in a man. “But now… I think I must have been infatuated with him, maybe a little in awe of him, nothing more than that.” She draws away just long enough to sit up and meet his eyes. “Because this, Mulder, what I feel for you, this is love, I know it is… and what I felt for him can’t hold a candle to this.”

The way Mulder’s face relaxes tells her that he believes her, and even as she’s straddling him, preparing to take him into her body for the second time tonight, she feels guilty for not being completely honest. She trusts him, doesn’t she? Enough to know he won’t think less of her? She stops kissing him and pulls back.

“You okay, Scully?” he asks, frowning in confusion. She nods.

“Mulder,” she says quietly, “I wasn’t completely honest with you just now.” Mulder is immediately worried.

“Which part?” he asks.

“I’ve had two other men,” she confesses, looking down. If he’s disappointed in her, she doesn’t want to see it in his face. “After I came back here, to take care of my mother. One was a man who helped on my mother’s farm, while I was nursing her back to health. He went away to fight not long after. The other was a British soldier, passing through at the start of the war.” She risks a glance at his face, but his expression is unreadable. “I didn’t feel anything for either of them, I promise you. They didn’t mean anything. I was just… I was lonely, Mulder, and worried about my mother, and my brothers, and trying to run the cafe and the farm on my own, and I had no one to turn to and-” Mulder stops her with a finger to her lips.

“Scully,” he says gently, “it doesn’t bother me. It doesn’t make me think any differently of you.” She’s so relieved, she could almost cry.

“You don’t?” He shakes his head, stroking her cheek.

“No,” he says. “I wasn’t a virgin, either, Scully. I’ve been with a few women before… and I can’t honestly say I felt anything for any of them, either. I was lonely, and I needed comfort. Why would I think less of you for having the same needs as me?”

“I’ve been brought up to believe that I should be able to rise above that kind of weakness,” she says.

“Needing someone isn’t a weakness, Scully,” Mulder says.

“Rationally, I know that,” says Scully. “But in practice… I have a hard time remembering it.” She smiles weakly. “I have a bit of an independent streak.”

“You? I hadn’t noticed,” quips Mulder, and they laugh together until Mulder kisses her again, effectively ending the conversation.

————————–

They eat dinner with Maggie on Sunday night, as they do nearly every week, and after Scully has sent Mulder back to camp with a kiss and a promise to see him on Tuesday, since he’s expected for cards on Monday, she returns to the kitchen to help her mother with the washing up. They work in a companionable silence for a time, Maggie washing and Scully drying.

“I feel like I spend every evening drying dishes these days,” Scully remarks, and Maggie chuckles.

“Would you rather wash?” she asks.

“No, that’s fine,” laughs Scully. “Mulder usually does the washing, when I close the cafe at night.” Maggie shakes her head, but she’s smiling.

“I still don’t think I’ll believe that until I see it,” she says. “A good-looking man who stands up to bullies, and does housework?”

“Did Papa never wash dishes, then?” asks Scully. She had been only eight when her father had passed away, and most of her few memories are of him doing the things typically reserved for fathers: presiding over family dinners, roughhousing with his sons, doling out discipline as directed by their mother, policing Melissa’s wardrobe choices… and reading stories with his youngest daughter.

“Oh, he’d lend a hand if I asked, if I was really overwhelmed,” Maggie concedes. “But it certainly wasn’t a nightly occurrence. I think you’ve gotten more than a little bit lucky, my girl.” They work in silence a bit longer.

“Maman,” says Scully, as they’re finishing, “do you think… if Papa hadn’t….” Maggie quirks an eyebrow at her. “Do you think Papa would have liked him, Maman? If he’d gotten to meet Mulder? Do you think he would have approved? Even though he’s a German soldier?” Maggie looks thoughtful.

“He would have been impressed with what Fox did the night that soldier had his hands all over you,” she say, finally. “And he would be very impressed with Fox’s decision to-” She stops herself and looks around. “With what he’s been doing lately. But what I think your father would have liked the most, Dana, would have been the way that Fox treats you. No one, seeing the way he is with you, could ever doubt that he loves you and respects you. That all by itself would have been enough to win your father’s approval.” Scully fights back the tears that have begun to gather in her eyes and nods. Her mother reaches out and takes her hand. “Come on,” she says gently. “Come and sit in the parlor with me for a bit before you go up to bed. I scarcely get to see you these days.”

No sooner have they sat down before the fire, however, than they’re startled to their feet by the sound of the front door being thrown open.

“Scully! Maggie!” She and Maggie leap to their feet at Mulder’s call. His footsteps pound down the hallway, towards the kitchen, and the women hasten to follow. “Maggie!”   
“Mulder, what are you doing here?” asks Scully as she rushes into the kitchen. “What’s going on?” Mulder’s face is red and sweaty, in spite of the chill outside, as though he’s been running hard. He’s leaning heavily against the wall, panting, his eyes wild. Scully’s stomach clenches in fear: whatever’s happened, it’s nothing short of catastrophic, if Mulder is this panicked.

“The father and son that left here last night, they were caught, they were questioned. The son told them where he and his father stayed.” There’s a roaring sound in Scully’s ears, and for a moment, she thinks she might pass out. “They’re coming, Maggie. You need to get ready to leave. The priest is sending someone to get you to safety.” Her mind goes immediately to her emergency bag, full of clothing and forged documents obtained for her by Frohike… tucked in her armoire in her apartment across town.

“We have to take her to my apartment!” she says, grabbing her mother’s arm, but Mulder shakes his head.

“That’s the first place they’ll look, you know they will,” says Mulder. “You’ve got to leave town, Maggie.” Scully opens her mouth to protest, but at the firm touch of her mother’s hand on her arm, she stops.

“He’s right, Dana,” she says. “You know he is.”

“Then I’m coming with you,” Scully insists. Mulder will come with her if she asks, Scully knows she will, but there’s no way she can leave her mother to fend for herself. But Maggie is shaking her head, laying gentle hands on Scully’s shoulders.

“Dana, you need to stay. There are too many people counting on you. You need to help them.” Scully knows her mother is right, that there are people here who need her, who won’t be able to pass safely through without her assistance… but right now, at this moment, she doesn’t care. They all come second to her mother.

“I need to help you, Maman,” she insists.

“You’ve been helping me for years, my darling,” says Maggie, taking Scully’s face tenderly in her hands and kissing her forehead. “But when I leave here tonight, you’ll be helping me most by staying with Fox and keeping safe. Right now, there’s nothing to make them think you’ve been involved in any of this. We’ve been careful… that boy and his father never even saw you here, they couldn’t have told the soldiers anything about you. But when I leave here tonight, I could be caught, and if you’re with me… they’ll know. Our being together will be all the proof they need that you’re involved.” She takes Scully’s hands in her own and squeezes them, looking her directly in the eyes. “You must do this, Dana. For me.” And Scully cannot refuse, no matter how much it feels as though her entire world is crashing down around her shoulders.

It’s been just the two of them for so many years now. Scully doesn’t know if she remembers how to get through each day without her mother there to turn to.

“Maman,” she cries, embracing her mother, sobbing. Maggie holds her tightly, rubbing her shoulders.

“I am so, so proud of the woman you’ve grown into,” she whispers. “And if your father could see you, he would be even prouder.” She tries to draw back, but Scully clutches at her, unwilling and unable to let her go.

There’s a loud pounding at the kitchen door, and Scully jumps back, her heart in her throat, until she recognizes Frohike’s voice.

“Scully, open up, it’s us!” Mulder rushes to open the door, and Frohike, Byers and Langly rush in. “Maggie, it’s time to get you out of here. Are you ready?”

“Yes,” says Maggie. “Just give me one moment, all right?” She turns back to Scully and cradles her face again. Her face is hard, set, though the tears are flowing freely down her cheeks. “You need to go with Fox now,” she says. “Never forget I love you.”

“I love you too, Maman,” sobs Scully. “So much.”

“I promise you, one day, we will see each other again,” says Maggie, and she embraces Scully one last time before passing Scully’s hand to Mulder’s. “Take care of her, Fox,” she says, and stretches up to kiss Mulder’s cheek.

“I promise I will, Maggie,” says Mulder. He looks to Frohike. “You’ll keep us informed? Let us know when she’s safe?”

“The moment we have her securely on her way, we’ll be back to tell you,” promises Frohike. The other two nod in agreement.

“Get moving,” says Mulder. And before Scully has a chance to protest, before she can even look once more on her mother’s face, Mulder has rushed her out of the kitchen door.

Later, Scully has almost no memory of the desperate flight back to her apartment. She’s crying throughout, held tightly to Mulder’s side, but she’s barely conscious of the passing landscape as he rushes her through the deserted streets and through the cafe’s back door. By the time she’s once again aware of her surroundings, she’s lying on her bed, crying so hard that her chest hurts, and Mulder is wrapped protectively around her. He looks as though he’s about to speak… but before he gets the chance, there’s a pounding on the front door to the cafe. Scully’s sitting upright in less than a second, shaking with fear.

“They’re here for me,” she says. They’re going to arrest her, question her, question Mulder, and send men out into the surrounding countryside until they find her mother… and then they will kill all three of them. Mulder, however, puts a calming hand on her arm.

“They’re here to see if you’ve been home all night,” he says. “I saw Skinner before I came to get you; he told me to do what it takes to make them think you’ve been in your apartment all evening, that you weren’t with your mother tonight, that you don’t know she’s gone on the run.”

“What if they think I was there last night, when that man and his son were hiding there?” she asks.

“They already know you weren’t,” Mulder reassures her. “There were soldiers in here when it was time for you to lock up the cafe, weren’t there? And it was after curfew. They know where you were last night.”

“And tonight?” she asks. Mulder bites his lip, thinking.  
“Do you trust me, Scully?” he asks. She nods, and he stands. “Then take off your blouse and get under the covers. When they come in, cover yourself with the blanket, but let them see your shoulders are bare. Let them think you’re naked.” Mulder unbuttons his uniform jacket, dropping it to the floor, and takes off his boots and socks. Standing, he unbuckles his belt, pulling his undershirt out of his pants to hang loose around his hips. He looks, Scully thinks, as though he’s thrown his clothing back on in haste after being caught at a delicate moment… and suddenly, she realizes that that’s exactly what he’s going for. She loses no time obeying him, stripping off her blouse and camisole, dropping her boots to her bedroom floor. She pulls the duvet up to her shoulders.

“Won’t you get in trouble, flaunting it like this?” she asks. Mulder shakes his head.

“Not much. Maybe night guard for a week again.” He kisses her gently, then stands. Downstairs, the pounding on the door sounds yet again. “Don’t worry about me right now. There’s nothing, anywhere in here, that can implicate you, is there?” Scully shakes her head.

“Nothing. I never keep anything written down,” she says. He nods.

“Stay here,” he says. Before she can answer, he’s gone, running through her flat and downstairs. Scully can just barely hear muffled voices- they’re at the front door, and her bedroom is in the back of the house- but before long, there’s the heavy sound of many boots tramping up the stairs, and she hears Mulder addressing someone in German.  
“But if you just wait a moment….” he’s saying… and to Scully’s immense relief, it’s Walther Skinner’s voice that answers him.

“Down that way?” Skinner is asking.

“Yes, but Sir, I really think that-” That’s as far as Mulder gets before Skinner throws open the bedroom door. Scully has just enough time to jerk the duvet up to cover her chest and let out what she hopes is a convincingly frightened shriek. She comes within half of breath of turning the shriek into a laugh… because Skinner’s eyes are squeezed tightly shut, lest he catch even a glimpse of her naked body.

Over Skinner’s shoulder, Scully can see Mulder and another man, with a pinched, rat-like face. Mulder has pointed him out to her once before as Jeffrey Spender, his childhood acquaintance, the son of his commander.

“Fraulein Scully,” barks Skinner, “please put on your clothes and join us in the parlor. We have some questions for you.” He shuts the door, and letting out an enormous breath, Scully gets out of bed and pulls her clothing back on.

Skinner is in charge of the questioning, which the young Spender doesn’t seem happy about. The entire affair takes twice as long as it should, because Mulder keeps having to translate each question from German to French, and each of Scully’s answers back into German, to keep Spender in the dark about Scully’s fluency. It’s over an hour before Skinner is finished, and at the end of it, Scully is completely exhausted.

“We have no further questions at this time, Fraulein Scully,” says Skinner, finally. “But we do ask, should your mother contact you, that you inform us immediately. For you to attempt to keep her whereabouts from us would be unwise.” He looks to Mulder, who translates, and Scully nods. Skinner turns to Mulder. “Obersoldat Mulder, you’ll see us out,” he says. “Then you’ll get yourself cleaned up and get back to camp. Understood?”

“Yes, Sir,” says Mulder. Skinner and Spender nod to Scully, then go back downstairs, Mulder behind them. The moment they’re gone, Scully stands woodenly and makes her way slowly back into her bedroom, where she collapses onto her bed and curls in a ball. She feels drained, numb from the shock of the night’s events, unable to take it all in. When Mulder comes back, he lies next to her on the bed, taking her in his arms and stroking her hair.

“You should get dressed and go back,” she says finally, though it’s the last thing she wants him to do. “They’ll be looking for you.”

“Not tonight, they won’t,” says Mulder. “Not in all the excitement. And I’m sure I can get Skinner to claim to have seen me in camp, if need be.” He strokes her hair and presses a gentle kiss to her forehead. “Speaking of Skinner, why were you trying not to laugh when he opened your bedroom door?” At the memory of Skinner’s flushed, embarrassed face, Scully manages a tiny smile.

“Because he had his eyes closed,” she says. “He was standing there, in my doorway, belting out orders at me with his eyes shut tight and his cheeks bright red.” Mulder grins.

“Protecting your modesty. A real gentleman,” he says. It’s true, Skinner is a gentleman, and Scully can’t help but chuckle a little. The lightness in her heart is short-lived, though, as the loss of her mother comes crashing down on her yet again… and in moments, she’s sobbing.

Her mother is gone. If, by some miracle, she is not caught tonight, brought back and questioned, before being put to death, she’ll be making her way through countryside that’s crawling with German patrols… and even if she reaches safety, there’s no guarantee Scully will ever see her again. And even if she does, it’s likely to be years from now.


	8. Chapter 8

ORADOUR-SUR-GLANE, HAUTE-VIENNE, FRANCE  
FEBRUARY 1944

Shortly after sunrise, Scully gives up on sleeping any longer and pulls herself out of bed, Mulder following behind her. She hangs a sign on the cafe’s front door, informing her patrons that the restaurant will be closed for the day, and with Mulder by her side, she begins the long walk out of town to her mother’s farm. Apprehensive about what she’ll find when they get there, she’s silent for the entire journey, and Mulder, wisely, does not push her to talk.

She’s relieved to see, as they approach the farm, that the animals are all still in their proper places: Philippe the draft horse is in his paddock along with the goats, the chickens are pecking about the yard, and when Scully peers into the barn, she sees that the farm hands have already gotten a start on the morning milking, even without her mother there to supervise. She and Mulder take stools and settle in to help at once, and for a brief time, Scully simply concentrates on the task at hand, trying not to think about the fact that yesterday, Maggie had been sitting on the stool Mulder now occupies. Her mother’s absence is a constant knife in her side, a loss felt so keenly that it makes her physically ill.

With the milking done, Scully arranges with the farm hands to make sure that all of the tasks once done by Maggie will be taken over, that the animals will get fed and watered, the cows will be milked, the eggs will be collected, and Philippe will be brought into the stable on cold nights. And finally, when she can put it off no longer, Scully ventures cautiously into the farmhouse.

As expected, the soldiers have torn the place apart inside, looking for any evidence that could provide them with insight into the workings of the Resistance. It’s all in vain, of course: Maggie never, ever wrote anything down, never received notes or messages, never kept physical evidence of any sort in her home. Her role had been, quite simply, to provide food and shelter for anyone passing through who might need it, and she had only ever been alerted to the imminent arrival of refugees by word of mouth.

“It does give me a small bit of pleasure,” Scully tells Mulder, looking around at the wreckage of the kitchen, “imagining your commander and his men going through all this trouble and not finding a single thing. I’m sure they expected a treasure trove of labelled maps and ciphers and lists of addresses of other safe houses.” She bends and begins to gather up shards of shattered china. She retrieves a pail from where it lies on its side in the corner of the room and begins to deposit broken plates into it, and as she turns to continue working, she notices that Mulder has not joined in. Instead, he’s standing in the kitchen doorway, looking around at the wreckage. The expression on his face is far too easy to identify, and setting the pail down, Scully goes to him.

“Mulder,” she says softly, taking his arm, “none of this is your fault.”

“It’s my commander that’s done this,” he says, eyes full of shame. “My father’s best friend. And my countrymen who helped him.”

“That doesn’t make you responsible for it,” Scully insists. “If you hadn’t come running out here last night, things would have been infinitely worse. Without your warning we would have been caught completely unaware and my mother never would have gotten away in time.” She squeezes his hand. “And most likely, I would have been arrested, as well.” He drops his head, giving a small nod of assent. “Now come on. Help me get this straightened up.”

Together, they clean up the broken china and glassware. A few of Maggie’s grandmother’s good plates have only broken into two or three large pieces, and Scully saves these, in hopes of gluing them back together later. The receipts and invoices that have been torn out of the writing desk are gathered up, organized, and re-filed, and the letters from Bill, Charlie, and Melissa go back into the desk drawer. The pantry has been looted, and all of the wine is gone, but in the cellar, pushed far back on the shelves, Maggie’s fruit preserves remain untouched. Scully will not need to come up with new fillings for her pies. It’s a small enough relief, but today, she’ll take whatever she can get.

Upstairs, clothing has been torn out of wardrobes and drawers and scattered all over, and they fold it all back up carefully and put it away. Maggie’s jewel box lies on the floor, the lid torn off by the hinges and the contents gone, but Scully knows well enough that anything of real value had long-since been packed away and tucked into a bag of clothing and identification, set aside in preparation for just the sort of hasty departure she’d had to make last night. The full-length mirror in the corner of Maggie’s bedroom has been shattered (out of spite, as far as Scully can tell- did they think there might be hidden messages behind the glass), and she carefully sweeps up the shards. All of the duvets and pillows have been torn, and feathers cover everything like snow. Scully saves the ripped pillowcases and duvet covers for use as bandages.

It takes most of the day, but finally, the inside of the farmhouse is put to right. As the sun nears the horizon, Scully stands in the kitchen doorway, staring listlessly across the room at the sink, thinking of how, just yesterday evening, she’d stood right there with her mother, washing dishes and talking, never guessing their world was about to come crashing down around them.

She’d give anything to return to that moment.

——————

Scully feels as though she’s moving through an impenetrable fog as February passes into March. Her days and nights are taken up almost entirely by work, many of her mother’s responsibilities now falling to her… but being much too busy suits her just fine.

The busier she is, the less time she has alone with her grief.

Still, no matter how late into each night she stays up, there simply aren’t enough hours in the day to get everything done, which is how she finds herself, one evening, teaching Mulder the finer points of how to bake a pie.

“It should be even, all the way around,” she tells him, as he tries to roll out the bottom crust for a cherry pie. “Right now, your edges are much thinner than the center.” It’s the kindest assessment she can manage: in truth, his first attempt at a crust is a lumpy, uneven mess, a little three-dimensional map of the French Alps in pie crust, full of hills and valleys and patches of flour that he hadn’t managed to mix in thoroughly enough. Mulder frowns at his own work, then glances over at Scully’s crust, which is perfectly level, a uniform consistency throughout.

“I don’t know how you do that,” he grouses, balling his own dough back up and trying to mix in the bits of flour.

“Practice,” Scully says. “The pie crusts I made when I first learned were every bit as lumpy as yours.”

“Nothing wrong with a few good-sized lumps here and there,” Mulder murmurs, abandoning his pie crust to nuzzle at her neck, running his hands over the swell of her hips. A little shiver goes through her and she giggles… but within seconds, she remembers why she shouldn’t be giggling, and sobers instantly. Mulder backs off at once.

“I’m sorry,” Scully whispers, but Mulder shakes his head.

“No, I’m sorry, Scully,” he says. “I know you don’t want-”

“It’s not that I don’t want to, Mulder,” Scully says, cutting him off. “It’s just that… I feel like I can’t let go and relax, no matter what I do.” She sighs. “I can’t stop thinking about it, and I feel like I don’t have any energy left over for everything else. Not as busy as I am.”

“Have you ever thought that maybe you’re doing too much, Scully?” Mulder asks tentatively. She shakes off the thought with a toss of her head.

“What did I stay behind for, if not to help people?” she asks. Mulder doesn’t answer, and after a moment, she looks up from her crust to see him trying- and failing- to conceal a look of dejection. She realizes immediately what he thinks she’s said, and dusting her hands off on her apron, she reaches out to touch his cheek, bringing his gaze to hers. “I don’t need to stay for you,” she tells him, “because you would have come with me if I had left.” His face relaxes, and he smiles at her.  
“Yeah, I would have,” Mulder agrees, and kisses her.

Mulder is definitely right about her doing too much, however, and that becomes apparent as March draws to a close. She is tired all of the time, more exhausted than she’s ever been in her life, and it’s no surprise to her at all when she begins to feel ill, as well. For a handful of days, she’s barely able to keep anything down, and every evening, as soon as the cafe is closed, she retreats to her bed, sleeping harder than she has since her mother’s departure.  
She’s preparing to do just that on the last Saturday evening in March when the knock comes.

Mulder is at the sink, washing dishes, and she’s just finished locking up. The pounding at the back door makes both of them jump. She’s not expecting anyone, not tonight, and it’s with great caution that Mulder opens the back door to reveal…

…Byers. Alone. Scully grabs him by the arm and pulls him roughly into the kitchen.

“Is she all right?” she asks, the moment she’s got the door shut and locked. “Is she safe?” Byers smiles, and Scully’s sense of relief is so acute that for a moment, she’s actually lightheaded and has to grasp the counter to remain standing.

“She’s in Switzerland,” says Byers.

“Switzerland?” Scully says, confused. “I thought you were taking her to Spain!” The plan for an escape route for either of them has been in place since the beginning, should they ever need it.

“We tried to,” Byers explains, “but there were too many checkpoints. It got too risky. We had to backtrack and go east instead of south. We were able to get her on a boat across Lac Leman. She’s got her papers and enough money to get on a plane to England. She asked us to tell you that she’s going to contact your brother’s wife in America and make her way there as soon as she can… and that she loves you, and she’ll see you when all this is over. I’m sorry it took so long for me to get back here to tell you,” he says, looking apologetic, “but we had to be careful and move slowly, and then we lost a lot of time when we had to turn around and change direction. But I promise you, your mother is safe, we stayed on the shoreline watching until the boat docked on the other side, and-” It’s as far as he gets before the emotions raging through Scully are just too much, and she collapses into embarrassingly loud sobbing. Or, at any rate, she thinks, dimly, that she ought to be embarrassed; in reality, she doesn’t care. She crosses the kitchen and seizes Byers in a hug, gratitude overwhelming her beyond coherency.

“Thank you,” she gets out, barely, “thank you so much….” And she’s overcome again. Byers pats her on the back

“It was nothing, Scully,” he says. “We were happy to do it. But listen, I can’t stay, Frohike and Langly are waiting for me north of town, we need to meet our contact, so….” Scully is dimly aware of Mulder taking her arms, freeing poor Byers from her grasp.

“Go on,” Mulder tells Byers, giving Scully a squeeze, holding her close. “Thank you for coming to tell her- to tell us. It means a lot.” Mulder moves out of Scully’s grasp just long enough to shut and locks the back door after Byers, then turns back to Scully, putting his arms around her again. “Come on, Scully,” he says, his voice tender, pulling her across the kitchen, towards the stairs. “Let’s get you up to bed, all right?” Words are still beyond her, but she nods, and allows him to lead her up to her bedroom.

She can’t stop crying, no matter what she does. It’s as though the stress of the past month, the horror of not knowing whether or not her mother was safe, had built up and built up, and now, knowing that she’s all right, everything is coming out all at once. Scully sobs until finally, she has to run to the washroom to be sick (not an uncommon occurrence, these days), and it’s only then that she manages to calm herself.

When she comes back from the washroom, Mulder is waiting for her, a glass of cool water in his hands. She accepts it gratefully, taking a long, slow drink, and then smiles at him, at his unsure expression. He looks as though he’s unsure of whether or not she wants him there- and she finds that the very idea of him leaving right now makes her want to start crying again.

“Please stay with me,” she says softly. “I know I haven’t been very… very present, these last weeks. I’ve just been so scared. I’m sorry that-”

“Scully, you have nothing to apologize for,” Mulder interrupts, taking her hand. “I understand. I just wish you would have leaned on me a little, let me be there for you, instead of holding me at arm’s length. I wanted to comfort you.”

“I’m not very good at leaning on people,” she admits, smiling slightly. “I don’t like needing help.”

“I’ve noticed,” he says. “And I know you don’t need my help, Scully. That doesn’t mean I don’t want to give it to you.”

She takes him to bed, then, for the first time in a month, and allows herself to believe that, just maybe, everything will be all right now.

———————

It’s three days later when she finally connects all the dots.

She’s stacking clean towels and bedding in her linen cabinet when her gaze falls on the pile of cotton pads on the lowest shelf… and suddenly, she knows the reason for the exhaustion, for the nausea, for her rapidly changing moods, swinging from one extreme to the other with little to no provocation. She does a quick count in her head and swears out loud.

She sinks down to sit on her bed, clutching her lower belly as though she can feel what’s going on inside, even though she knows full well that it’s much too early for any sort of outward sign. She curses her own idiocy: how could she have been so distracted to miss all of the signs so thoroughly? She’s a doctor, for the love of God! More than anyone else, she should have been able to figure out what had been going on!

Regardless of how long it’s taken her to figure things out, her next step is clear: she needs to tell Mulder. The idea doesn’t fill her with any sort of dread; in spite of the stories she’s heard through the years of unmarried women and girls who have been abandoned by the father of their child, she knows full well that Mulder is not that sort of man. She’s not entirely certain what his feelings towards children are, but she knows beyond a doubt that he will stand by her.

No, it’s not Mulder’s reaction that concerns her. The person she truly dreads telling is not on hand to receive the news in person, but one day, Scully knows, she’ll have to find out.

It’s not quite enough to make her relieved that her mother is gone… but it’s close.

She decides not to wait to break the news to Mulder. He shows up in the cafe at the start of the dinner rush, as usual, and eats a sandwich before retreating into the kitchen to help her get through the day’s work. She follows him back, and finds him already wrestling with the ball of pie dough she’d mixed up earlier in the day, rolling it out into a very uneven lower crust and trying to place it into a pie tin.

“I need to talk to you,” she says. “I know you’re supposed to meet Spender for cards tonight, but can you stick around after I lock up? Just for a bit?” He’s immediately concerned.

“Of course,” he says. “Is everything all right? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” she assures him. He looks as though he’d like to press her for a more satisfactory answer, but doesn’t. He returns his attention to the mess he’s making in the pie tin. “You know that the holes are supposed to go on the upper crust and not the lower one, right?”

“I’m filling them in, don’t worry,” he promises. As she watches, he pulls some dough off of the ball on the counter, flattening it into one of the tears in his crust. “It’ll be covered with fruit anyway, right? No one’s going to see it.” As much as she’d like to argue, Scully knows she doesn’t have time- and it won’t do any good, anyway. Shaking her head and sighing, she returns to the dining room.

The rest of the evening passes quickly. The cafe is blessedly busy, and Scully doesn’t have much time to worry about the conversation that’s coming as soon as she’s closed up for the night. But when the moment finally does arrive, when she’s locked the front door, brought back all of the dirty mugs and dishes, locked up her earnings for the day in the safe, and hung up her apron, she suddenly finds herself unaccountably terrified.

She doesn’t think Mulder will be horrified, doesn’t think he’ll leave… but what if she’s wrong?

Mulder picks up on her nervousness right away. “What’s going on, Scully?” he asks. “Have you heard something from your mother?”

“No, it’s not that,” she says. “There’s no easy way to say this, Mulder.” And almost immediately she proves herself right, her powers of speech failing her, her carefully-worded, well-thought-out revelation forgotten as she stands there, arms crossed tightly over her sore, tender breasts. She raises her eyes to his, begging him to read her mind somehow, to know what she needs to tell him without her having to say a word.

And miraculously, he does.

“Scully,” he says softly, “are you pregnant?” She holds his gaze for a moment longer; then, closing her eyes and looking down, she nods.

The silence seems to stretch on and on, and Mulder’s face is completely unreadable. He looks as though he’s been clubbed over the head, it’s true (and in a way, he has), but beyond that, his expression leaves her with no clue as to what he’s thinking. She wills herself to speak up, to say something, but she can’t… and after a moment, it becomes unnecessary anyway. Mulder crosses the kitchen suddenly and quickly, pulling her close to him, wrapping his arms comfortingly around her.

“Are you sure?” he asks, his voice muffled, his face pressed into her hair.

“As sure as I can be, at this stage,” she says. “I feel like such an idiot… I’m trained in medicine, I know the signs, and I missed every single one of them. I put everything down to stress, to worrying about my mother… but then none of the symptoms went away after Byers came to see us, and then… I knew.” She draws back and looks up at him. “Are you angry, Mulder?” He looks at her like she’s lost her mind.

“Of course I’m not angry,” he says. “It’s maybe not the best time, I’ll grant you, but… come on, Scully, you can’t tell me you haven’t at least thought about this, about what it would be like.” She relaxes into a smile. Of course she’s thought about it, but distantly, as a possibility that didn’t even bear dreaming about, under their current circumstances.

“I have, Mulder, I have, it’s just….” She shakes her head. “Not like this. Not while everything is so uncertain, and certainly not before-” The word “marriage” sticks in her throat. “My mother will be horrified if she finds out, Mulder. I don’t care how much she adores you, she’s a dyed-in-the-wool Catholic and this will break her heart.” Mulder nods and pulls her close to him again. She can only guess at what’s running through that unpredictable mind of his… but somehow, what he eventually comes out with is no surprise at all.

“Scully,” he says, drawing back to look at her, “marry me.” Her eyes widen for a moment; then, shaking her head, she laughs. His face falls. “Ouch. Not quite the reaction I was hoping for.” Scully gets herself under control, quashing the giggles as best she can.

“Oh, Mulder,” she says, taking his hands in hers and squeezing them. “It’s not like I don’t appreciate the offer, believe me. But I don’t want you to marry me because you have to.”

“I know I don’t have to,” he argues. “I want to.”

“But I don’t want this to be the reason,” she insists.

“Don’t think of it that way, Scully,” he says. “I’m not. It’s not a reason to marry you. It’s an excuse.”

His words melt her heart, and the temptation to say yes right then and there is all too real. But this is something she needs to think about- and something she needs to give him the chance to think about, as well. There’s every chance he’ll decide, after closer contemplation, that maybe it’s not something he’s ready for after all, and she doesn’t want him beholden to a promise he’s made at an emotional moment.

“How would we even do that, Mulder?” she asks. “Your government has forbidden it. It’s not like we can just march up to the town hall and demand to be married.”

“I’m not talking about a civil ceremony, Scully,” he says. “I’m talking about going to your church and having the priest marry us. He’ll keep it a secret. Nobody else has to know.”

“But it wouldn’t be legally valid,” she argues. “A civil ceremony is the only kind the state recognizes. The French government wouldn’t care that we were married in the eyes of the church.”

“But would your mother care?” he asks gently. And he’s got a point, she knows he has. Her mother would not be at all bothered, as long as the priest had given them his benediction. “Just think about it, Scully,” Mulder urges her. “We could even tell her we got married before you got pregnant, if you want. There’s no reason she has to know any different.” He hopes, just for a moment, that she’ll say yes, right then and there, but he knows her well enough to know that that’s not how she operates. He will need to be patient.

“I’ll think about it, Mulder,” she promises. “And one way or another… thank you.”

—————

The first weekend in April brings with it an event that Scully has been helping to plan for over a month… and one that seems almost appropriate, given the question that’s been weighing so heavily on her mind. Her neighbor, Guillaume Bertrand, who owns the butcher’s shop right next to the Cafe Pequod, had approached her not long after Christmas with a proposition. His eldest daughter, Sophie, had just informed her parents of her intent to marry her longtime sweetheart, and Guillaume had proposed to Scully that, in exchange for hosting a small wedding lunch, he would provide Scully with several choice cuts of meat, free of charge. She had readily agreed. When he’d heard about the upcoming celebration, Mulder had somehow produced several bottles of very nice wine to be served at the wedding lunch- under the condition that Scully claim that they are a gift from her.

Aside from the wedding party, there seems to be a larger than usual number of German officers and soldiers in the cafe today. The weather is just beginning to warm up, and with the sun shining and a hint of spring in the air, everyone is relishing the opportunity to get out and enjoy the day. Scully worries, at first, that there could be problems and tension, with so much of her dining room taken up by the Bertrand family and their guests, but so far, there’s been no trouble at all. Even when Guillaume Bertrand, his face flushed red with the impressive amount of wine he’s consumed, begins singing- loudly- in French, the German soldiers merely laugh, tolerant of an old man’s joy on the day of his daughter’s marriage.

Scully makes a run to the kitchen for a tray of pastries, bought for the wedding party by a German officer in a particularly generous mood, and when she returns to the dining room, she sees that Mulder, sitting at his customary table, is no longer alone. With him is Jeffrey Spender, the childhood companion he’d warned her against, and several other officers she doesn’t know. Mulder catches sight of her and waves her over.

“Mademoiselle Scully,” he says, in French, as she approaches, “please let me introduce my childhood friend, Jeffrey Spender. We grew up in Berlin together.” Scully reluctantly offers her hand, and her skin crawls when Spender kisses it. She’s extremely glad when he lets go.

“Such a pleasure to meet you, Fraulein Scully,” says Spender, in German. “Fox talks about you so often. Might my friends and I sample the coffee he raves about so much?” Scully pastes a look of polite confusion onto her face, turning to Mulder, who translates the request into French. She nods in response.

“Put it on my tab,” says Mulder. She brings the coffee quickly, electing not to remain at the table as Spender and his companions drink. She heads back to the kitchen, wishing she could just remain there until Spender and his friends are gone. She doesn’t like the look of him at all. But unfortunately, the sound of rising singing calls her back to the dining room almost immediately, and she comes running with her heart in her throat.

“Allons enfants de la Patrie,   
Le jour de gloire est arrivé!”

Guillaume Bertrand, standing up now, holding his almost-empty wineglass aloft, has made the switch from singing innocuous folk songs and lullabies to singing the one song likely to get him and his family thrown into prison- or worse.

“Contre nous de la tyrannie,   
L'étendard sanglant est levé!”

The sound of “La Marseillaise,” unsung in France since their defeat at the hands of Germany, stirs something in Scully’s heart- but only for a moment. Sophie and her mother are pulling desperately at Guillaume’s arms, trying in vain to make him sit down, but he responds by jerking his arms out of their grasp and climbing up to stand on his chair, instead. Scully is seconds from going to him, distracting him somehow (possibly with another bottle of wine, if need be), when suddenly, Mulder stands up and calls out to Sophie and her mother.

“Mademoiselle, please, let him sing,” Mulder insists. “Patriotism, love for one’s country, is a beautiful thing to see. And besides,” he smiles, “your father has a beautiful voice.” Guillaume grins brashly at Mulder and continues his song, his wife and daughter cautiously returning to their seats.

“Entendez-vous dans les campagnes   
Mugir ces féroces soldats?”

Scully feels tears pricking at her eyes, and before the entire cafe can catch her crying, she turns and retreats to the safety of the kitchen. She leans against the butcher’s block, taking deep, steadying breaths, love for Mulder, for his bravery and his determination to do the right thing, coursing through her.

She could not possibly have asked for a better man. She owes him an answer, and there is only one answer she could give.

The hinges on the kitchen door creak, and Scully turns to see Mulder standing in the doorway, looking concerned.

“Scully, what is it?” he asks. “Are you all right?” Nodding, she crosses to him, sinking willingly into his waiting arms. She lets him hold her for a moment, until she’s mastered her tears, and when she looks up, his gaze is inquiring, worried.

“Yes,” she says, and a look of wild, uncontained happiness overtakes his handsome face.

“Yes?” She nods, beaming.

“Yes,” she says. “Yes, I’ll marry you.”

————————

On a beautiful April Saturday, exactly one week later, Scully closes the cafe at noon, hanging a sign on the door apologizing for closing early. She steals upstairs and changes out of her work clothes, exchanging her flour-dusted skirt and blouse for a clean, simple dress of light blue. Mulder arrives at the kitchen door minutes later, his uniform clean and pressed, and together, they set off through the back streets of town.

The priest is waiting for them when they arrive at the church. Scully has not told him the reason (or, as Mulder insists on calling it, the excuse) for their hasty wedding, but she assumes he’s guessed, though if he knows, he hasn’t shown himself unwilling to help them. He’s known Scully since she was a little girl, and has known her mother longer than that, and there is not much he wouldn’t do for her family.

The ceremony is quick and simple- no witnesses are needed, they’ve decided, since the marriage won’t be legally binding anyway- and no rings are exchanged. They leave the church with no outward sign that anything has changed… but in her heart, Dana Scully feels completely new.


	9. Chapter 9

ORADOUR-SUR-GLANE, HAUTE-VIENNE, FRANCE  
LATE APRIL 1944

“No, Mulder. Absolutely not.”

“Scully, it’s the only way.” He’s pleading with her, begging, almost, but she remains firm.

“I am not running away, Mulder. I can’t leave my cafe. I’m telling you now, I won’t do it.”

“I know you love your cafe, Scully, but what are we going to tell people when your pregnancy starts to show?”

“I don’t need to say anything. It’s no one’s business but my own.” She drops an armload of dirty dishes into the sink, splashing soapy water everywhere. They’re locking up the cafe for the night, but the argument is one that’s been going on since long before closing time.

“That might be true, but people are going to make assumptions,” says Mulder, rolling up his sleeves and getting to work on the dishes. “And knowing you’re carrying my child is going to make you into a target for Spender. Not to mention, he’ll do everything he can to use you against me.”

“He’s not necessarily going to know it’s your child,” Scully protests feebly, retrieving a tray of meat from the refrigerator and transferring it to the butcher’s block. She selects a knife from the block and begins hacking at the meat with unnecessary force. Mulder doesn’t even dignify her latest rebuttal with a response; instead, he shakes his head and sighs, returning his attention to the sink of dirty dishes.

She knows, somewhere in her mind, that she’s being irrational. Absolutely no one, in Mulder’s regiment or in the village, is going to have even the slightest doubt that she’s pregnant with Mulder’s child. And she knows that it’s going to put him in an awkward place, that his commanders are going to use her condition to try to suss out his level of devotion to her. Leaving before she begins to show would be the safest course of action for all three of them.

As much as she knows it’s what they have to do… the thought of abandoning her home, leaving her beloved Cafe Pequod, the continued success of which she’s poured her entire heart and soul into for five years (not to mention the years her mother had invested into the place before that) is unspeakably painful. A part of her has been hoping- not realistically, she knows- that the Allied invasion will come and the war will be over before her belly begins to protrude. If that were to happen, Maggie would be free to come home, to resume her life on the farm, and things could continue just as they once had- with the welcome addition of Mulder, of course.

But Scully is already nearly three months along. Her belly is still flat, but that could change at any time, and even if the invasion were to happen tomorrow, the chances of the war being over before her pregnancy becomes obvious are slim to none. She’s overheard enough from the men eating in the cafe to know that plenty of them are still convinced that their victory is assured regardless of what happens, and as long as they have that confidence, they’ll fight hard.

She knows they’ll have to leave… rationally. But lately, it’s not always her rational mind that’s in control. She knows, from her medical studies, that pregnant women often experience volatile emotions, but still, she hadn’t been prepared for the reality of it.

Mulder says nothing, only continues washing dishes, rinsing them, and transferring them carefully to the other side of the sink. When Scully finishes with the tray of meat, she returns it to the refrigerator and crosses the kitchen to stand next to Mulder. He glances quickly down at her, but says nothing as wordlessly, she begins taking the clean dishes, drying them off one at a time, stacking them on the counter next to her.

“Sometimes it feels,” she murmurs quietly, looking down at the bowl in her hands instead of up at Mulder, “like this place has been the biggest constant in my life. I lost my father when I was just a little girl, my brothers and sister left home as soon as they were old enough, and now my mother is gone, too. I know it’s just a place, Mulder, but this cafe is almost like a member of my family.”

“I know, Scully,” Mulder says gently. “And if I could think of a way for us to stay, we would. I don’t like the idea of leaving this place, either.”

“What if I told Guillaume Bertrand? The butcher, who lives next door?” Mulder shakes his head sadly.

“I don’t think that would be a good idea, Scully,” he says.

“Why not? He’s a good man, Mulder. He wouldn’t give us away. If I were to tell him, a week or so before we leave-”

“I don’t doubt he’s a good man, Scully, but he’s got a family. And Oberst Spender is not a good man. He’d be more than willing to use that family against him. How long do you think he could keep our secret if his daughter’s life were on the line?” Scully hangs her head. Mulder is right, of course. He dries his hands on a dishtowel and reaches for Scully, wrapping her in a tender embrace. “I know it’s hard for you to give this up, Scully,” he says. “Believe it or not, I’m having a hard time with it, too.” She pulls back enough to look up at him.

“You are?” He nods seriously.

“I’ve never felt more at home anywhere than I have here,” he confesses. “Though, I suspect you have more to do with that than anything else.” Scully smiles and leans her forehead against the center of his chest. “We’ll be all right, Scully,” he promises. “As long as we’re together.” She hides her face for a moment longer; then, taking a deep breath, she looks up at him and nods.

“All right,” she assents. “We’ll go, and we won’t tell anyone.” He looks immensely relieved as he pulls her close. “When?”

“It will have to be soon,” Mulder says. “Before you start to show. Is there any way to know when that will be?”

“No,” she says, shaking her head. “It’s my first pregnancy, so it could take awhile. Maybe into the fifth month, if we’re lucky.” She breaks his embrace and begins putting the dried dishes away. “We’ll need time to get ready.”

“Frohike can make identification papers for us,” says Mulder, resuming the washing up. “I can get him money for that right away. Where will we go?”

“Maman and I agreed that if we ever needed to flee separately, we would make our way to London and meet there,” Scully says. “But I don’t know what the best way to get there would be.”

“The quickest way would be across the English Channel,” says Mulder thoughtfully. “But crossing now, with Germany holding the beaches, would be impossible. If the Allies really do invade as soon as Skinner thinks they might, that might be our best chance. I can speak French without an accent, so we could pretend to be a French couple easily enough, and if we can slip past the front, we can make our way to Calais and cross from there.”

“What will we say if we get caught?” Scully asks.

“That depends on who catches us,” says Mulder. “If it’s the Germans, then we’re just a married couple trying to reach your mother, who lives on the coast, and get her away from the coming conflict. And if the Allies stop us….” He shrugs. “Well, I can’t think of a better time to reveal yourself as a member of the Resistance.”

“But what if the time comes to leave, and the invasion hasn’t happened yet? Or what if the invasion happens, and they’re beaten back?”

“Then we try for Switzerland or Spain instead,” says Mulder. “But one way or another, we need to set a date and stick with it.”

————————–

Frohike assures Scully that procuring them identity papers will be no problem, though it may take a few weeks. They confide their plans to Skinner, who doesn’t seem the slightest bit surprised, though he’s unmistakably sad. He asks that they not tell him the exact date- the less information he has, the better it is for all of them. Privately, they set the date for June fifteenth- though they agree, should things change, they will move it up.

Scully spends much of the next month cutting back on her menu, selling more and more of her extra butter and cream and stashing the money away. She has no idea how much they’re going to need, but if they need to go to Switzerland and travel by plane, it could get expensive. She makes several trips out to the farm to gather up various small objects, mementos her mother had been forced to leave behind that Scully looks forward to giving back to her, should the chance ever arise. She removes her parents’ wedding photograph and several pictures of herself and her siblings from their frames, and gathers up her mother’s secret stash of love letters written to her by her husband. These, she packs carefully in the side of her bag, along with changes of clothing, both for herself and for Mulder.

As May draws to a close, Mulder reports that the atmosphere in the encampment is becoming increasingly tense and anxious. The invasion could come any day now, and the more time that passes, the more worked up the men get, anticipating it. Scully is nervous, as well: the invasion could mean that Mulder’s regiment will be relocated quickly, with little to no warning, as forces are pushed towards the coastline to fortify the front. And if that happens, they’ll have to leave immediately, rather than risk trying to meet up later.

On June third, near closing, a dark-haired man- not a soldier, he’s wearing civilian garb- enters and approaches the register. He’s not someone Scully has ever seen before, which immediately puts her on alert. She knows everyone in this village, and even most of the surrounding countryside.

“I want to place an order for a pie,” he says. His tone is brisk, brusque, bordering on rude, but Scully studiously does not react, merely reaching for her notepad to take down the details of the order.

“What kind would you like?” she asks, keeping her voice level and even.

“Cherry,” he says. “To feed three people.” Scully writes this down.

“And when do you need it by?” she asks.

“By the thirteenth of June,” says the man. Scully looks up at he man, brows arched. Typically, when someone places an order, it’s for people who need to be moved within the next couple of days. Someone knowing, two weeks in advance, when refugees will be passing through seems… odd.

“That’s quite a distance in the future,” she says, keeping her voice carefully neutral.

“Will that be a problem?” the man snaps. Out of the corner of her eye, Scully sees Mulder tensing as if to rise. She remains totally calm, and he relaxes back into his seat.

“No, of course not,” Scully replies. “Come back on the eleventh of June, and your order will be ready.” The man nods shortly and leaves without another word. Scully glances over at Mulder, who is frowning after the man, looking perturbed… but at that moment someone approaches the counter to pay for sandwiches, and she doesn’t have time to speak to Mulder again until they’ve closed up for the night.

“Scully,” he says as he enters the kitchen, the last of the day’s dirty dishes cradled in his arms, “I think we should move up our departure date.” She looks up at him from where she’s slicing up meat for tomorrow’s sandwiches.

“Because of that man?” she asks. “The one who ordered the pie right before we closed?”

“There was something about him that spooked me,” he says. “Call it gut instinct, but I don’t think he’s what he seems.” Mulder dumps the dishes into the sink and opens the fridge for Scully so that she can deposit a tray of freshly-sliced meats inside.

“He spooked you badly enough to want to leave early? Really? It seems a little extreme to change everything on just a hunch.” She leans against the closed refrigerator door and looks up at Mulder, eyebrows raised.

“Just… trust me on this, okay, Scully?” he asks. “Please?” He reaches out and pulls her towards himself. His hand gently seeks out the barely-emerging bulge under her skirt, concealed by her apron, and caresses their child tenderly. “I just… I don’t want to take any chances if we don’t have to. There’s too much at stake.” She meets his eyes, swayed by the concern and love she finds there. He might be overreacting, but she knows he’s right: it’s no longer just about them. They have to play it as safe as they can. She covers his hand with her own.

“I’ll get word to Frohike,” she says. “What should the new date be?”

“Let’s make it the tenth,” he suggests. “That way, we’ll be a good distance away before he comes back for his order… or for whatever else he’s after.”

He stays the night- a rare occurrence, but one she doesn’t discourage tonight, when he’s so nervous and on edge. In the morning she’s awoken by a chill as Mulder lowers the duvet to press a kiss to the slight curve of her belly.

“It’s not like she can feel that, you know,” she tells him, not bothering to open her eyes.

“Doesn’t matter,” he says. “I can feel it.” She smiles and reaches for him, pulling him back up so that she can kiss him. “And how do you know it’s a girl, anyway?”

“I don’t,” she says. “I just have a feeling, that’s all.” She’s had dreams about the baby, and in every single one, she sees a little girl with a head full of red curls. She’s not superstitious, and she scoffs at the idea of dreams foretelling the future… but the visions of a strange ring of truth to them, and in spite of her skepticism, she can’t think of the baby as anything except a girl.

“Isn’t there some way for you to tell?”

“There are a bunch of old wives’ tales,” she says, “but every last one of them is complete and utter nonsense.” She opens her eyes, finally, looking up at him. “You’re just going to have to be patient, I’m afraid.” He kisses her again, and she resists the temptation to simply hold him there.

“I’ll be back this evening, all right?” he promises. She nods and closes her eyes again, and she’s asleep before he’s even left the room.

She’s awake for the day less than an hour later. Her first stop for the morning is at the church, where she asks the priest to convey a message to Frohike, alerting them to their new departure date. From there, she goes to the farm to oversee the milking and to direct where the cream and butter should be sold, and then it’s back to the cafe to open up for the morning. She’s thankful, not for the first time, for the burst of energy she’s felt as the middle portion of her pregnancy has begun; there’s been a lot to do to prepare for their departure, and the idea of doing it all while still suffering from morning sickness (not to mention the idea of undertaking the journey itself while ill) is daunting to say the least.

As she’s approaching the cafe on the high street, Scully notices a profound difference in the atmosphere in town this morning. People are scurrying from one place to another quickly, stopping to whisper to one another, separating and rushing off at the first sign of patrolling German soldiers. She doesn’t stop to talk to anyone; it’s nearly time to open, and she’s not quite ready yet… but she feels a twinge of anxiety low in her belly, wondering what’s going on.

By the time the first five customers of the day have entered the cafe, she knows exactly what’s happened.

The invasion has begun at last.

The details that the townspeople have are sketchy at best, and for once, there are very few German soldiers in the dining room today, so she can’t glean much information from their conversations. But as near as she can tell, the invasion has begun in Normandy, though there’s no word as of yet as to how it’s going. Scully rushes through the morning in a fog, terrified, knowing that this could easily mean that Mulder’s regiment is to move out quickly, possibly even today. She hasn’t heard back from Frohike yet and has no way of knowing whether or not their plans are in place. The idea of rushing off blind, without their escorts, fills Scully with dread… but if Mulder’s regiment is moving out, they will have no choice.

Mulder arrives at his usual time and sets her mind at ease immediately, heading straight for the kitchen to speak with her.

“We’re staying put,” he tells her, as soon as the door is closed. “Skinner says we’re to remain here and deal with the Resistance as best we can.”

“So we keep the same date, then?” she asks, and he nods.

“I think so,” he says. “If we change it, we have to contact Frohike and start the process all over again. Skinner thinks it’s better just to leave it as it is.” He chews his lip, looking troubled.

“What is it?” Scully asks him.

“Skinner knows about the baby,” he says, his voice little more than a whisper. “He suspected it, when I first told him we were planning to leave… and he says that now he can see he was right.” Scully’s breath catches.

“I’m showing enough that he can tell?” Mulder nods. She looks down at herself critically. With her apron in place, she can barely see the tiny bulge. “Do you think anyone else can see it?”

“He doesn’t think so,” says Mulder. “And he pointed out that if anyone had noticed, it would definitely be all over the camp by now. And I think he’s right, Scully. I think our secret is still safe. But we definitely need to keep to our departure date, or it won’t be safe for long.” She nods.

“I suppose if I do really start to show before then, I can close up shop and claim to be ill,” she muses. “Or say that I’ve run out of supplies, or something… but let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

——————————–

For once, their luck holds, and on the morning of June the tenth, Scully’s stomach is no larger than it had been six days earlier. She sends Mulder back to the encampment in the early hours of the morning and busies herself with her normal weekday activities, determined not to deviate from her routine at all, lest someone’s suspicions be aroused. Her stomach is in knots all day, from the time she goes to the farm to do the milking straight on through the morning and afternoon spent working through the day’s crowd at the cafe.

At about three o'clock in the afternoon, Scully looks up from the register and, with a jolt of surprise, sees the dark-haired man, the one who had made Mulder so nervous, striding purposefully through the front door. He comes straight to the counter and addresses her brusquely.

“I will need my order sooner than expected,” he informs her. “Tomorrow. Will that be a problem?”

“Yes, I’m afraid it will,” she tells him, flustered. “I’ll need to make sure I have the necessary supplies, and that will take forty-eight hours, at least.” The man narrows his eyes at her, then looks over her shoulder, towards the kitchen.

“You don’t have the… ‘necessary supplies’ on hand?” he asks. “Upstairs, perhaps, in your apartment? Because I’ve heard, from more than one person, that you have supplies on hand right now, at this very moment. Supplies you most definitely should not have.” Scully’s breath catches in her throat, a cold knot of fear slipping down into her stomach. She’s not sure what the man is insinuating, but she suddenly wants him gone. Immediately.

“Sir, I don’t know who you’ve been talking to,” she says carefully, “but cherries can be very difficult to come by, given the current shortages. I’ve arranged for some to be delivered in time for your order to be completed on the fifteenth, and I don’t have any way of changing that at this late date. I’m sorry if you’ve heard different, but it’s just not true.” The man smiles coldly at her, his face displaying what looks for all the world to be triumph, and he whirls on his heel and leaves. Shaken, Scully retreats to the kitchen to regroup.

About an hour later, a small group of German officers enter the cafe. They go to the other soldiers sitting nearest to the door and whisper something to them, and the men leap to their feet at once and leave. The officers continue around the dining room, whispering to every soldier present, and before long, every single one of them is heading hastily for the door, some not even paying for their food. In minutes, the only diners left are a handful of very confused locals, looking around at each other, frightened.

“Did anyone hear what they were whispering about?” asks Scully, throwing caution to the wind. Her patrons, most of whom don’t speak any German, shake their heads. Scully makes a split-second decision. “I think,” she says, trying to keep her voice calm, “that I’m going to close up for the day. Why don’t you all go home? Check on your families?” There’s not a single grumble of dissension; her customers are just as unsettled as she is. They leave quickly, and she locks up behind them, retreating to her apartment upstairs to pace circles from her sitting room to her bedroom, resisting the urge to rush off and try to find Mulder immediately. She doesn’t know what’s going on, but it can’t be good.

She’s jerked out of her reverie before long by a loud pounding on the front door. Glancing out the front window from upstairs, she can’t see who’s there, but when she makes her way downstairs and into the dining room, she’s not at all surprised to see Jeffrey Spender’s face looming in the front window. And this time, Walther Skinner is nowhere to be seen. She freezes in the kitchen doorway and contemplates, for a moment, simply turning and running out the back door, making for the woods outside of town and trusting that Mulder will eventually find her there… but Spender’s men, clearly, have had this thought as well, because through the curtains on the back door, she can see the shadows of soldiers, waiting for her to try to escape. Taking a deep breath and steeling herself, she crosses the dining room, plastering a look of polite confusion onto her face as she unlocks the door.

Spender’s men are on her before she has the time to pull the door all the way open. She cries out in surprise and pain as they pull her arms behind her back, but does not try to fight them- there are four of them and she knows she doesn’t have a chance in hell. The only thing she can do is try and talk her way out of this. Unless they open her bag and find her false identity papers hidden in the folds of clothing, there is absolutely nothing incriminating anywhere in the cafe or in her apartment.

“What are you doing?” she demands, in French. “Let go of me at once!” Spender sneers at her.

“Why don’t we drop the act, Miss Scully?” he suggests, in German. “I know you can understand me perfectly well.” Scully’s brain is working at a fast clip, and she tosses up the first excuse she can come up with.

“Obersoldat Mulder has been teaching me German,” she lies, attempting to thicken her accent, to make it more believable. “Is that some sort of a crime now?”

“No,” says Spender, “but kidnapping German officers most assuredly is a crime, and one we intend to punish most harshly.” Scully doesn’t need to fake her confusion; she has absolutely no idea what he’s talking about.

“I have never had a hand in anything like that,” she says. “I don’t know what you’ve heard, but you’ve heard wrong.”

“Have we?” Spender asks. He turns to his men. “Search the premises,” he orders them. “Find the captive and bring him to me at once.” The men instantly set about turning the cafe upside-down amidst Scully’s cries of shock and protest, upending tables, sending plates and bowls crashing to the floor. They continue on into the kitchen, and she hears them shoving things off of the counter, destroying more crockery, before they continue upstairs.

“There’s nothing for them to find,” she pleads with Spender. “I have absolutely nothing to hide from you.”

“That’s not what we’ve been told,” Spender says. “We’ve been told that a German officer from another regiment is being held hostage here.”

“Then you’ve been told wrong,” she insists. Moments later, Spender’s men, out of breath now, reappear in the dining room empty-handed. Scully lets out a breath- they haven’t discovered her identity papers.

“There’s nothing up there,” one of them tells Spender. “We must have received false information. She’s alone. No sign of the captured officer.”

“There, you see?” Scully says triumphantly. “Someone has lied to you, someone is trying to get me into trouble. Who told you? Some of the townspeople, they don’t like me because I’m kind to all of you, because I serve so many of you in my cafe. I promise you, whoever’s told you these lies is just trying to get revenge on me for my friendship with some of your officers.” She feels like she’s babbling, but she knows she’s got to come up with something if she has any prayer of being released.

“Oh, we’ve heard reports from your neighbors,” Spender says, smiling dangerously. “It seems Obersoldat Mulder has not been your only after-hours visitor, has he? Some of your neighbors report that you’ve been seeing all sorts of men… in all sorts of condition. And they all seem to be in better shape when they leave from your back door than they were in when they arrived, don’t they?” Scully says nothing, but her sense of dread increases exponentially. They’ve been so careful… but clearly, they haven’t been careful enough.

“So what I think,” continues Spender, “is that even if our captured comrade isn’t being held here, then you must know where he is being held, not to mention the identities of whoever is holding him.” He gestures for his men to follow him as he heads towards the front door. They drag Scully along amidst her struggles and protests. “We’ll have to take you back up to camp, I think, and question you properly… while my father’s men deal with your pathetic village once and for all.” Scully’s feet freeze in place, pulling the men holding her back, as she realizes what’s happening, why the soldiers dining this afternoon had left so suddenly.

“You can’t,” she says softly. Spender’s cruel smile widens.

“We can, and we will,” he informs her. “A message needs to be sent: anyone who helps the Resistance can expect to pay dearly.” He continues walking, and his men continue to drag Scully along.

“But this is nothing to do with the Resistance!” Scully insists. “The people who come to me at night, they’re sick, they’re injured, and they can’t afford a doctor! I use the money I make at the cafe to buy medicines and supplies, and I treat them for free. That’s all it is, I swear to you! It’s just charity!”

“We’ve heard differently,” Spender says. Scully is about to continue arguing… but as they round the corner of the high street, she sees the first regiment making its way into town, and her voice completely fails her. The men aren’t marching in any sort of formation; rather, they’re rushing from door to door in groups, forcing their way into shops and houses, dragging frightened families into the street and forcing them towards the center of the village, towards the town square. Other soldiers rush into buildings as the families vacate them, smashing windows, throwing furniture out into the streets, openly looting the emptying homes and storefronts. A mother and her four children are herded past her, the smallest stumbling and falling into the street with a cry. His mother stoops to pick him up, and immediately receives a boot in the stomach from the soldier closest to her.

“Move!” the soldier bellows. “Get up, now!”

“Leave her alone!” Scully cries out, straining against the men holding her, against her hands tied behind her back. The soldier looks up just long enough for the woman to stand, and for one of the older children to pick up her youngest brother and carry him along. Spender laughs harshly at Scully and continues walking.

“Don’t concern yourself with any of them,” he advises her. “You and your friends have done quite enough on their behalves. The men will be sent out to your mother’s little farm to await their fates- those barns she’s kept in good repair will come in quite handy- and I imagine my father will find someplace else for the women and children to go.”

“None of these people have had anything to do with it!” Scully cries. “You can’t punish an entire village of innocent people!”

“If they’re harboring a member of the Resistance among them, knowingly or not, they’re no longer innocent,” says Spender. “And I’m tired of listening to you blathering.” He gestures to one of his men. “Let’s shut her up until we’re ready to hear what she has to say, shall we?” The man withdraws a length of cloth from his pocket and gags Scully, effectively silencing her protests.

They drag her through the town and towards the encampment, passing company after company of German soldiers making their way into town to join in the fray. The expressions on the soldiers’ faces, Scully notices, run the gamut from terrified dread, all the way to excited anticipation… but no one, no matter how unhappy they seem with what they’re being sent off to do, is putting up any sort of protest. She knows better, by now, than to expect any of them to speak up, to voice their concerns: every last one of them knows they’ll be shot without hesitation should they refuse to comply.

Spender and his men bring her to the front door of the farmhouse. Waiting there, Scully is not at all surprised to see, is the dark-haired man from earlier. Whoever he is, this rumor of her holding a captured German officer has clearly originated with him.

Spender turns to his men. “You two,” he says to the men who each have one of Scully’s arms, “bring her inside. The rest of you, go and find my father. I’m sure he’ll have plenty for you to see to.” The others depart in haste, and Scully is dragged inside, down the hall and into a sitting room, where she’s forced to her knees. Spender enters in a leisurely fashion, and he gestures to the men to remove Scully’s gag.

“Now,” he says, “maybe you’ll be ready for a little honesty, perhaps.”

“I’ve already told you the truth,” says Scully. She jerks her head towards the dark-haired man. “I don’t know what this man has told you, but either he’s lying, or someone has lied to him. He gave me to believe that he had someone injured, someone that he needed me to treat, and he’d be brining whoever it was to my cafe in several days’ time so that I could see to them.”

“Lies,” spits the dark-haired man. “I asked her today, in her little coded language, and she as good as told me the captured officer was upstairs in her flat.” Scully whips her head around to stare at him, aghast.

“Who are you?” she demands. “Who’s paying you to say these things? Or has this regiment simply decided to move on, and you needed a convenient excuse to have a little fun before you left?” She turns back to Spender. “There is no one hidden in my flat, as you’ve seen yourself, by now. And I can almost guarantee you that no search of the village is going to reveal any captured officer, either. This man doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

“Do you really expect us to believe you have no idea where the kidnapped officer is being held?” Spender demands, advancing on her. “We know you’ve given aid to the Resistance. We know your mother has hidden criminals at her home. We’ve seen your 'friend’ buying medicines and bringing them to you.”

“I’m a doctor,” she insists.. “I treat whomever is brought to me; I don’t care what side they’re on. That’s what all of the medicines are for.”

“You’re a cafe owner, not a doctor,” says Spender derisively. Scully finally begins to lose her cool. This is a farce, all of it, and Spender is merely having fun with her, as a cat toys with a mouse, before killing her.

“People can be more than one thing at once, you know,” she sneers at him. “I’m a doctor and a cafe owner. Just like you’re an idiot and an asshole.” Spender’s eyes flash dangerously, and before Scully has time to react, he reaches out and slaps her across the face. She cries out in pain and surprise.

And then, all hell breaks loose.

Spender turns at the sound of feet pounding down the hallway, and suddenly, Mulder is there, Skinner right behind him, their guns drawn. Mulder’s face is full of rage. He fires twice, killing both the dark-haired man and one of the men holding Scully. The other man releases her, aiming and firing his own gun at Skinner, hitting him in the leg. Skinner gets off a shot before he falls, taking down his attacker, and for half a breath, Scully is free. But as Mulder turns to see where Skinner has gone, Spender capitalizes on his distraction, and before Scully can get away, Spender has her in his grasp, his pistol held to her temple. She freezes.

Mulder turns, his gun pointed at Spender, and Scully can see the dilemma in his eyes: does he take the shot and risk hitting Scully, or risk missing both of them and having Spender kill her anyway?

“You have a long habit of falling in with the wrong crowd, Fox,” sneers Spender. “I keep hoping you’ll grow out of it, but I’m starting to think you’ll never learn.”

“What the hell are you talking about, Spender?” demands Mulder.

“I’m talking about your choice of company,” says Spender. “This lying French whore, for one. Your traitorous schoolmate from Berlin- what was his name? Rolf? That coward with his precious newspaper full of lies.” Spender chuckles mirthlessly. “And of course, your stupid sister.” From across the room, Scully can see the blood draining from Mulder’s face.

“Don’t you dare say a word about my sister, you pathetic little rat,” he growls. Spender laughs coldly.

“That’s rich, you calling me a rat,” he snarls. “You know, I hoped, for months, that you would wise up and turn your sister in before she got completely out of hand. That’s what I would have done… but then, I understood that loyalty to country is more important than loyalty to family.” He gives a casual shrug. “So I turned her in for you.”

Scully’s breath catches in her throat at Spender’s admission. She is certain, suddenly, that Mulder will forget himself, forget the situation they are in, that he will rush at Spender and seal both of their fates… and, indeed, he does take a step towards them… but to her great relief, he stops and holds himself in check when Spender presses the gun harder into her temple, making her gasp.

“Now, this is what we’re going to do,” says Spender, with the air of a man who knows he’s won. “You’re going to drop your weapon and kick it over here. I’m going to tie you up, and we’re going to wait here for my father to come back and deal with both of you. I imagine, if you beg nicely enough, he’ll kill her quickly and you won’t-”

_BAM._

Scully jumps in shock at the sound of the gunshot at at the sudden, warm spray of blood on her face. She barely registers the loss of pressure as Spender releases her and she falls to the side. When she rolls over and looks, she sees Spender lying several feet away, the top of his head blown off… and beyond him, behind the sofa, where he’d fallen, is Skinner, his face pale, but his hold on his gun perfectly steady. Scully rolls immediately to her feet.

“Mulder, cut my hands loose,” she demands, and Mulder complies instantly. She rushes to Skinner’s side, rolling him on his back and carefully probing his thigh, finding the gunshot, reaching around the back of his thigh. She sighs in relief when she locates an exit wound. “It went through clean,” she says. “I need something to bind it to stop the bleeding.”

“Scully, there’s no time,” says Skinner. “You and Mulder need to leave now!”

“You have to come with us,” says Mulder. Skinner shakes his head.

“I’ll only slow you down,” Skinner says. “You’ll never get out of here in time if you’re carrying me.”

“But Sir….” Mulder glances at Scully, torn. “If you stay here, they’ll know you helped us escape. Your life will be forfeit.”

“I’ll tell them I chased you up here and you shot me,” says Skinner dismissively. “It’s not like any of these four are going to contradict me.”

“They may not believe you,” argues Mulder.

“Mulder, GO,” Skinner all but shouts. He rips his own belt off and begins to lace it around the top of his thigh, preparing to apply a tourniquet. Scully is relieved to see that he knows how to do this much, at least. “I’ll be fine, I promise!” Mulder stands, Scully rising with him… but for a moment, he seems frozen, unable to move. Scully understands: leaving Skinner here feels like signing his death warrant, and after all the older man has done for them, it doesn’t seem right, doesn’t seem fair. But on the other hand, if they don’t leave, it’s almost certain that all three of them will be dead by morning. Skinner has clearly come to the same conclusion, and he bellows at them impatiently. “Oh, for God’s sweet sake! All the thanks in the world are going to be meaningless to me if you two don’t get your asses out of here right now!” At last, Mulder nods.

“Take care of yourself, Walther,” he says, his voice thick and strained. He takes Scully by the arm, and they flee without a backward glance.

—————————–

Mulder leads her around the edge of town, using the cover of night to shield them from sight. Scully finally notices, through her shock, that Mulder has somehow managed to retrieve her bag from her flat, which means that they will have their false identity papers, not to mention the changes of clothing that both of them, now, will need. Mulder cannot continue in his uniform… and looking down, Scully sees that her own shirt is drenched in Jeffrey Spender’s blood.

As they pass the village, Scully’s attention is caught by the sounds of screaming. She freezes, and looking out, towards the outline of the village, she sees a great gout of flames suddenly rearing up towards the sky. Judging from its location, it looks like the church has been set on fire. There’s a horrified groan from next to her, and turning, she sees tears in Mulder’s eyes. But before she can ask what’s wrong, she spies a second fire on the horizon… and she knows exactly where it’s coming from.

“That’s my mother’s farm,” she whispers, her voice broken. “Spender told me they were taking the men there, to the barns.” Mulder puts his arms around Scully, holding her close to him, and as she shivers in his embrace, she comes to another unwelcome realization. “The women and children were in the church, weren’t they?” she asks, her voice muffled against his chest. She feels him nodding agains the top of her head, and she just barely manages to stifle a sob into his shirt. It’s too big, the horror of it, too extreme to take in all at once, and she feels in danger of being paralyzed with it, being frozen in place… and there is no time for that now. She pulls herself away from Mulder, who takes the bag off of his shoulder, handing her a clean blouse as he pulls out his own change of clothing. They hide her bloody blouse and his uniform under the leaves and continue on their way.

Scully tries to tune everything out as they head to their meeting place, to ignore the sounds of machine gun fire coming from the town, the screams that rend the night, the terrible, unspeakable stench of burning flesh that wafts across the countryside towards them. She feels ill, as though she may need to stop and vomit at any moment… and so to center herself, to get through it, she places one hand carefully over the bulge in her stomach, reminding herself why she needs to keep going, to get out of here, to survive.

And as if in answer, in confirmation, she feels a tiny flutter from within, a promise that if she can make it out of here, the reward will be rich.

At last, they reach the top of a small rise, where Frohike, Langly, and Byers are waiting for them under cover of a copse of trees. All three men are watching the flames expanding on the horizon, horrified and speechless. Frohike embraces both of them, but there is nothing that can be said. They watch as long as they can as the flames consume the town… and then, their hearts heavy, they turn and leave, weighted with the knowledge that there is nothing they can do.

Oradour-Sur-Glane is gone.

 

 

**EPILOGUE**

LONDON, ENGLAND  
AUGUST 1944

Scully is completely exhausted when she finally makes her way back to the flat at the end of the day. She drags her feet wearily up the stairs to the third floor, running her hands over her enormous belly as she stops halfway through each flight, trying to catch her breath. Not for the first time, she curses the fact that the apartment isn’t conveniently located on the ground floor… and then immediately chastises herself, remembering (also not for the first time) that they’re lucky that Frohike still has this flat available at all. Life would have been infinitely more difficult if they had been forced to stay in one of the shelters they’ve been combing for weeks, instead.

The journey across the French countryside, after their narrow escape from the village, had been tiring, but not nearly as difficult or as dangerous as they had feared. The German army had been mostly concerned with preparing to repel the Allied forces, and had not been the slightest bit interested in a young French couple (and their three mismatched, quiet friends, who preferred not to answer questions) making their way towards the coast to rescue her mother from the coming fighting. Scully had been terrified when the time had come to slip by the advancing front, but getting to Calais had been a complete non-issue, and purchasing passage to England had been easy enough, with the money she had managed to accumulate in the cafe’s final months.

But once they had arrived in London, where she and Maggie had always planned to meet up, should they be forced to flee separately, it had become apparent that they would not be reuniting that very first day- or even that very first week. London is enormous, crowded, and still reeling from the onslaught of German bombs that had fallen during the Blitzkrieg. Scully, tired out from the journey and nearly into the third trimester of her pregnancy, had needed several days to rest and recuperate before she could begin the search, and when their money began to run out after the second week of combing shelters and information centers, she and Mulder had had to find jobs, which had meant that they’d had even less time to search.

Now, after a month in London, Scully is beginning to think that either Maggie is not here yet, or she’s been forced by some unknown circumstance to continue on elsewhere. She and Mulder have left word all over the city, at every shelter they’ve visited, providing an address where they can be reached, should her mother show up looking for them.

Scully digs her key out of her pocket and lets herself into the flat, barely registering as she does that there are voices coming from within. Doubtless, Mulder is home from his own day’s searching, and if she’s lucky, he’ll have had time to start cooking them dinner. She hasn’t eaten in hours and her empty stomach is screaming for sustenance.

As she trudges into the sitting room she’s drawn up short by a startled cry- in a very familiar voice. Looking up, she sees Mulder, beaming at her from across the room… and standing next to him, her hands clutching her face, radiating a joy that warms Scully from head to toe from all the way across the room, is her mother.

“Maman!” shrieks Scully, moving as quickly as her expanding girth will allow her, as Maggie rushes at her from the other side of the sitting room. The two women embrace, sobbing almost hysterically, clinging to each other and rocking from side to side. When at last they draw apart, Maggie’s hand goes immediately to her daughter’s stomach, and in the midst of her joy, Scully is suddenly nervous. Maggie looks to Mulder, her eyebrows raised in question.

“You neglected to mention this little development, Fox,” she says pointedly, and Mulder blushes.

“I thought it would spoil the surprise,” he mumbles, looking down.

“We married, Maman,” Scully tells her mother. “Right after you left. Just in the church, so of course it’s not legal, but that doesn’t matter, does it? And then, just a month later, we found out I was pregnant.”

“So you’re due in… what, October? November?” Maggie asks.

“October, we think,” Scully lies. “But you know how these things can be, it’s so hard to pin down an exact date. I suppose it could be anytime this fall.”

“Yes, I suppose exact dates can be tricky,” says Maggie dryly, “when you’re not sure of when it… began.” Scully blushes and looks down, but Maggie takes her face in both hands, forcing her to look back up. Her mother’s face, she is relieved to see, is suffused in warmth. “I’m so happy for you, my darling,” Maggie says. “Just to see you again is a joy I feared I would never know… and everything else is just added happiness, as far as I am concerned.” Mother and daughter hug again, and Maggie holds an arm out to Mulder, who crosses the room tentatively and allows both women to include him in their embrace.

Soon, Scully knows, her mother will want to know the details of their escape, to know why they’ve fled, and what they’d left behind… and she will learn, if she doesn’t know already, what fate her beloved village and her neighbors have met. She will learn that even when the war has ended, she will not have a home to return to, that the farm and the cafe into which she had poured her heart and soul are no more. There will be tears, Scully knows, and sorrow, before any of them can begin to heal.

And after that, they will have to decide where to go next.

But for now, for this moment, with the two people she loves most in all the world finally standing with her, Scully is content to revel in this happiness, hard-fought and hard-won, and to let the future happen as it may.


End file.
